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POEMS. 



A CHAPTER FROM 



THE MODERN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 



Slander and Gossip. 

[compiled.] 



All our trials, our anguish, our woe, 
Bring us strength, as the angels know: 
If life's lessons be all read aright, 
The bright morning is born of the night, 
And our joy is the offspring of woe. — C. J. M. 

Out of the chaos of some awful crisis of personal experience 
a new heaven and a new earth have been born." 



PRINTED 

FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 
1882. 



u q3> 






205449 
5 13 



DEDICATION OF POEMS 



TO MY FRIEND, 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



Thou wilt not turn away — thou wilt not say, 
" I care not for such sad, wild strains as these, 
I care not for pale field-flowers like to thine, 
Nor yet for fractured stones, though set in gold." 
Thou wilt bend over them, and from thy eyes 
Some pitying drops will fall to give them worth. 
A beggar might choose pebbles by the road, 
As well, to take unto a king, whose crown 
Is set with gems : — a peasant better could 
Choose wayside flowers, and bear them to a queen 
Whose palace gardens glow in gorgeous blaze 
Of tropic hues. The king, the queen, might turn 
In cold disdain ; but thou, the king of men, 
Wilt say, " No flower but that to me is sweet, 
Which love or friendship places at my feet." 




A FRAGMENT. 

Tell me, petrel, flying homeward, 
Tell me, dost thou ne'er repine, 

When the billows and the tempest 
Spend their force on thee and thine ? 

But the petrel, flying onward, 
Falters not, nor turns aside : — 

Read a lesson ye who murmur 
When your hopes are crucified ! 



,* 



POEMS. 



LOST RICHES. 

In love, one who ceases to be rich begins to 
" poor. — Cham/or t. 

My life that once was rich indeed, 

Is now so rich no more ; 
And like a beggar I must plead 

For alms from door to door. 

Here, with cold looks they turn away, 
There, a small pittance give, 

And ever, wander as I may, 
Scarce find I food to live. 

But see, my road draws near its end, 
A beacon-light shines fair — 

And though alone my way I wend, 
More than I've lost is there ! 



POEMS. 



SAN MORITZ. 

High in the sterile Ober-Engadine, 

San Moritz's villas cluster by a lake ; 
There Winter slowly drags her icy car, 

And scarce a sound the slumbering echoes wake. 

But when triumphal Summer holds her reign, 
No vale on earth so wonderfully fair ; 

And rippling streams, and rustling forest leaves, 
And warbling birds with music fill the air. 

In this fair land there lies a wondrous spell : 

For those who drink where bubbling waters spring, 

Return again and oft unto that well, 

The poor, the rich, the peasant and the king ! 

What find they here which brings them o'er the seas, 
And over lands that stretch from east to west ? 

Why leave they homes where, wrapped in lavish ease, 
The years should glide in happiness and rest? 



8 POEMS. 

Ah, know ye not there is a boon more dear 

Than can be bought with all their untold wealth ? 

This is what sends the countless numbers here : 
They search this boon — the priceless boon of health. 

Oh ye that search and find, turn not away 

Till you have left your thankful offering here ; 

Pause for one moment by the fount to pray 

And give your gift some sufferers heart to cheer. 



POEMS. 



OBER-ENGADINE. 



Know you the Engadine where green lakes lie 
Like emeralds o'er monarchs' mantles strewn, 

Where cloud-capped peaks reach up unto the sky, 
In grandeur bleak and desolate and lone ? 

There, on his matchless throne, the storm-god reigns, 
Hurling his fiery arrows through the air ; 

There Maia drives the fleecy flocks o'er plains 
Whose azure fields are infinitely fair. 

There the coiled glaciers' rampant glittering scales 
Mark the defiles where, in past ages born, 

With stealthy force they crept along the vales 
Which once smiled upward to the golden morn. 

Eternal snows make pure the altar crests, 

Round which these subtle, sinuous glaciers twine, 

Clinging like serpents to earth's rocky breasts, 
And draining from their founts her blood divine. 



io POEMS. 

There great Apollo, in his flashing mail, 

Pierces these monsters till the milk-white flood 

Flows down in fretful torrents to the vale, 
Gliding at last in peace by field and wood. 

There glowing blossoms sprinkle meadows green, 
Brilliant as those which bloom in warmer lands, 

Fringing the limpid brooks which coldly gleam 
From lush and level banks o'er silver sands. 

Chilled as that water is a heart I know — 
No fragrant flowers redeem its icy cold : 

The summer comes and goes, nor melts the snow, 
Heaped up by hands it trusted once of old. 

Love not, trust not, and few will be your woes : 
Love not, trust not, and few your joys will be ; 

But where love reigns, life blossoms like the rose, 
And bears its fruit beyond death's arctic sea. 



POEMS. 



BE BRAVE!' 



De Tocqueville uttered the want of all noble souls when he 
said, " I cannot be happy or even calm without the encourage- 
ment and sympathy of some of my fellow-creatures." 



Be brave ! poor heart, be brave ! 

And suffer and grow strong ! 
Just when the night the darkest is, 

The day will break ere long. 

Be brave ! sad heart ! be brave ! 

And falter not nor fear : 
For when the road the longest seems, 

The turning-point is near ! 

Be brave ! strong heart, be brave ! 

These words say o'er and o'er, 
Until the pulse has ceased to beat 

And lips can plead no more ! 



POEMS. 



ESTRANGED. 

" There is a sorrow worse than death, 
Know ye who weep the dead ! 
There are more bitter tears than thine 
In this life daily shed." — C. J. M. 

Thy golden bowl of life is broken, 

The pitcher to the fountain comes no more ; 

And thou hast gone, and left no token, 
That now thou lovest as in days of yore. 

I summon thee, O soul departed ! 

Recall the years within our youthful home ! — 
Think of the paths in which we started, 

Hand clasped in hand, earth's pilgrim ways to roam ! 

Think of the love which thou then showered, 
Saying I made the sunshine of thy life ; 

Think of my patience when the dark storms lowered, 
Which ended in that agony of strife ! 



POEMS. 13 

By that fond love, which I still cherish, 

By that sweet trust we gave in years gone by, 

Tell me, if love like ours can perish ? 

Such trust, like embers in their ashes, die ? 

Thou canst not pass the golden portal, 

soul, until thy answer comes to earth ! 
Ere thou canst tread those lands immortal, 

Thy childhood's love must have its second birth ! 

I hear thy answer : " Love is heaven; 

' To turn aside from love is hell,' in truth ; 
The veil between us is forever riven. 

1 love and trust as in my years of youth." 

San Moritz, July, 1881. 



14 POEMS. 



TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND. 



" Fate's arrows thickly fly, 
And if they strike not now, will strike at even. 
And so I ask no pity. On life's field 
The wounded craxvl together, but their cry 
Is not to one another, but to heaven." — Proteus. 



Turn with me to-night the pages 

Of the record of thy days ; 
See if I have e'er been wanting — 

True in censure, true in praise. 

How I loved thee ! how I trusted ! 

How my heart called after thee 
When my sorrows rolled in on me, 

Like the billows of the sea. 

Didst thou keep those watches with me ? 

Didst thou bring one cheering ray 
Under those thick clouds of anguish 

Wher adrift my frail barque lay ? 



POEMS. 1 5 

Since that barque, so even-laden 
With its trust and faith, went down, 

'Tis another sharp thorn added 
To my sorrow's thorny crown, 

That I showed thee all my burdens, 
All my wounds, revealed the pain, 

Which I strove to hide from others, 
When I reached the land again. 

Shouldst thou ever turn the pages 

Of the record of my past, 
Thou wilt see how well I loved thee, 

Faithful even to the last. 

When its final leaf is written 

And I've passed unto my rest, 
Take thy pen and write upon it — 

" Always she has done her best. 

" Always loving, always loyal, 

Scorning treachery and all wrong, 

Though her weaknesses were many, 
Love it was that made her strong." 
November 8, 1881. 



5 POEMS. 

THE SKELETON MEMORY. 
" Would that I could forget." 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rest, 

A skeleton stalks by my side — 
Its long bony fingers close over my breast, 

With, grasp of the true and the tried. 

Of all the dear friends that I counted a host 

This one alone constant remains : 
The others all fled when I needed them most, 

Or laughed at my woes and my pains. 

So I've learned to lean on my skeleton friend, 

Alone, or when lost in a crowd ; 
For I know upon him that I may depend 

Until I lie wrapped in my shroud. 

Here's a health to my faithful skeleton friend, 
And a health to friends who once fled : 

May they, in their turn, find him faithful to them, 
When I shall lie cold with the dead ! 



POEMS. 17 



WRECKED. 

Weird was the face of the ocean, 
Wild was the pitiless blast, 

As driven before it madly 
A vessel's wreck swept past. 

Out of the gaping port-holes 
Poured seas of foaming brine ; 

From battered hulk to broken masts 
No living thing made sign. 

Straightway in dreams before me 
My own wrecked life swept by — 

When I was left on seas of grief 
To sink, with no help nigh. 

* * * * * 

But He who holds the ocean 
In hollow of His hand, 

Guided that vessel into port 

And brought me to the land. 
2* 



1 8 POEMS. 

The stanch ship stored with treasure 

Of silver and of gold, 
Held all confided to its care, 

Safe in its iron hold. 

My barque, though wrecked, deserted, 
Holds now its treasure still, 

And He who brought it into port, 
Does with it as He will. 



POEMS. 19 



HOMELESS. 

AS A WANDERING BIRD CAST OUT OF THE NEST." — IsdZak. 

Like a bird from its nest driven forth, 

The earth's wide face I roam ; 
Though I sail east, though I sail west, 

I find no more my home. 

O storm-tost petrel of the wave, 

Knowest thou if rest there be 
Beyond this earth, in havens fair 

Where beats no surging sea ? 

The petrel bravely breasts the storm, 

Nor murmurs at its fate ; 
Take lesson ye who dare repine 

When wrecked and desolate 1 

The waves roll o'er, the winds sweep on, 

But they of sinews strong 
Feel not the waves, hear not the winds 

Which hurry them along. 



2o POEMS. 

They struggle not, but calmly bow 

Submissive to His will 
Who holds the waters in His hands, 

And bids the waves be still. 

The weaker ones, with plumage torn, 

Sink helpless on their way ; 
Yet not one sparrow falls unmarked 

In darkest night nor day. 

And we our course must each fulfil, 

Breasting the storms of life ; 
The stronger heavenward will soar — 

The weaker fall in strife. 

Sd, like the bird that's driven forth, 

The earth's wide face I roam ; 
Though storm-tost, wrecked and homeless here, 

I'll find in heaven my home. 

Qber-Engadine, July, 1881. 



POEMS. 21 

MIMOSA'S CHANT. 

From " The Modern Pilgrim's Progress." 

Then Mimosa remembered the vision she had seen so long 
ago in the cavern chamber of Depression, where the woman 
cried out, " O God ! these my offspring, whom I nourished at 
my breast, and reared through their childhood, and educated in 
their youth; whose joys have been my joys and whose sorrows 
have been my sorrows, whose love is all that I have left to live 
for; they have bitten my heart and torn my breast with the fangs 
of ingratitude, until I long for the grave, wherein to hide my 
grief, and to escape the demons which Anguish and Despair 
have set upon my path !" " It was my own future that I saw 
foreshadowed there," said Mimosa. Her harp was beside her ; 
for cruel as was her keeper, he had not the power to take that 
treasure from her. With tearless eyes she swept its strings as 
she chanted : 

Oh, grief, beyond all other griefs combined, 

When those round whom the tender heart-strings 

twined, 
With ruthless wrench the clinging tendrils tear, 
And leave the bleeding wounds for love to bear. 
Such is my lot ; such is my hapless fate — 
Alone to walk, way-worn and desolate. 



22 POEMS. 

No staff to lean on, as my days go by. 

Bereft of all that made it hard to die, 

What wonder that my roving thoughts I send — 

Some solace to my weary life to lend — 

Back to the years Avhen cradled on my breast, 

They found, whene'er they sought, both peace and rest. 

Why should it be that I should look in vain 

For what I gave to them without refrain ? 

No stinting hand the flowing measure doled; 

From love's deep founts in waves it gushed and rolled. 

What is my sin? In what have I e'er erred 

Where mother-love its guiding power stirred? 

Why has my God apportioned unto me 

This bitter cup? — this keenest misery! 

I boasted not, as Niobe of old, 

Who drew down vengeance on her happy fold ; 

I thanked my God, who unto me had sent 

Treasures I counted as but treasures lent ; 

Yet thought that nought could rob me of their love 

In earth beneath or in the heavens above. 

Oh ye, who weep your true and happy dead, 

Oh ye, who never to yourselves have said — 



POEMS. 23 

li There are some sorrows worse than death to bear — 
Some griefs too deep for sympathy to share!" 
Think if each drop were wrung, with wail of pain, 
Out of your heart's best blood, in crimson stain; 
And they, who turned the rack, to you owed all 
That earth can give and memory recall ! 

****** 
Of old asked One who in the garden prayed — 
"Can ye drink of the cup I drink?" He said; 
And I, in my grief, ask of Him to-night, 
" Did thy cup, dear Lord, with the angel bright, 
Hold a draught that was blacker than this of mine, 
With hemlock, and aloes, and bitter wine ? 
Did thy cross, dear Lord, bear a heavier weight 
Than the cross I bear, in my hopeless state, 
With its iron spikes that enter my soul 
As alone I walk to my Calvary goal ? 
Thy apostles, dear Lord, deserted Thee ! 
Were they as much as my children to me ?" 



24 POEMS. 



EVIL AND GOOD. 

' The soul of good in things evil." — Rev. Stopford Brooke. 

A SUBLIME FEELING OF A PRESENCE COMES ABOUT ME AT 

times." — Rev. F. Robertson. 

In the lap of the mountains I lie, 
Looking up to the cloudland of sky, 

While a vision, keen, piercing, and clear, 
Descends from the gods to me here, 
Till I see the pale spirits flit by. 

What mission have they to fulfil ? 
And is it of good or of ill ? 

No answer from far or from near ; 

And trustful I rest without fear, 
And wait as before on God's will. 

I hear not a breath nor a sigh, 

Yet some power forever is nigh ; 

Some Presence beside me keeps guard 
Around me to watch and to ward, 

And evil forever must fly. 



POEMS. 

Yet evil clings close to the good, 
As the rough bark clings to the wood ; 
And evil its course must perform 
Through sorrow and darkness and storm, 
Through lire of trial withstood. 

And good with the evil must grow ; 
In the field where white lilies blow, 

Bloom the blood-red blossoms of sin ; 

We know not how deeply within 
Strikes their stain on bosoms of snow. 

But the stain, the sin and its pain, 

And our grief, is never in vain ; 

We suffer, endure, and grow strong, 
And our right is born of our wrong ; 

And through fire our gold we regain ! 



26 POEMS. 



DEAD HOPES. 

I HAVE left my life behind me, 
I have buried my past to-day, 

And turned the lock of the grave-yard, 
And given the key away. 

I know will come days of longing — 
O days of unspeakable dread ! — 

When I shall go back in spirit 
To look on my precious dead. 

But I shall not faint nor falter, 
Nor show by a word nor a sign, 

How I mourn for what lies buried 
In this grave-yard heart of mine. 

And they who know not my anguish, 
My woe, and its deathless pain, 

Will smile with kind words of greeting, 
Counting my loss as my gain. 



POEMS. 

Their smiles with smiles I will answer, 
For they shall not read in my face 

How I mourn my dead hopes buried, 
How I watch the sacred place. 

Whate'er befalls in the future, 

Life's lessons have taught me to say, 

" The Lord directeth the steps of man, 
Though his heart devise the way." 



28 POEMS. 



URANIAN LOVE. 

Uranian love is the deity of pure mental passion. Pandemian 
love, of ordinary sexual attachment. — Plato. 

The laurel rose, or rhododaphne, is the emblem of Pandemian 
love. In Scandinavia, the first anemone, gathered in the spring, 
if kept, is thought by the superstitious to preserve from illness 
during the year. 

The calm and passionless, the disinterested and respectful 
affection of " soul friends" is reserved for men and women of 
the finest mould. . . . Let not the world look askance upon a 
relation so true and holy that it glorifies even the common de- 
tails of life, and is the noblest form that friendship wears — Anna 
B, McMahon. 

Anemone ! My treasured flower, 
How have you lost your magic power ! 

Where flown your charmed spell ? 
No flower e'er was guarded more, 
And fondly gazed on, o'er and o'er, 

Than from this Norseland dell. 

For he who brought you to my care, 
One radiant April morning fair, 
Told me the worth you bore. 



POEMS. 29 

If I would guard you thro' the year, 
Sickness nor death I need not fear 
Would enter at my door. 

The year is scarcely but half told, 
And summer shines on wood and wold, 

Yet now thy spell hath flown ; 
For fever surges in my veins 
And suffering racks me with its pains, 

And day and night I moan. 

Art thou the emblem of his faith ? 

" False flower, false love !" the Thracian saith. 

If so, then let me die ! 
Yet I could not the angels trust, 
Nor spirits of " the perfect just," 

Should falsehood in him lie. 

I keep my faith, my cherished flower — 
His love I hold my richest dower, 

I keep my faith in him. 
A true soul-love is born in heaven, 
Never by aught on earth is riven, 

Nor e'en on earth grows dim. 
3* 



30 POEMS. 

Thus wrote the wisest men of old — 
Plutarch's and Plato's words of gold — 

" No true love ever dies." 
Worthless is life when love is gone, 
Worthless that love that lives not on 

When youthful beauty flies. 

And though my flower's spell be brief 
As Rhododaphne's symbol leaf, 

I will not yield to gloom ; 
True love will still its radiance throw 
On all that's fleeting here below, 

On all beyond the tomb. 



POEMS. 31 

" ON THE HEIGHTS." 

" Sympathy is more than silver or than gold." 

" Friendship, to natures large and comprehensive in sym- 
pathy, at once noble and tender, means attachment as warm 
and strong as life itself, enthusiasm of personal interest, trust 
unshaken through all things, faithfulness unto death. What- 
ever befalls, it is the solace, the light, the joy of life." 

" Any one can love, but few have the capacity for friendship." 

George Sand. 

I cannot write for fulness of content : 

Poems are born as thunders are ; from out 

The strife of elements to purify 

The stagnant air. So high I stand, so near 

To heaven, nor strife, nor passion's sultry breath 

Can reach me here. When hearts are full as mine 

Few are the words which break — as bubbles break 

The quiet surface of an ocean deep 

When cradled into calm — few are the words 

I ween, that stir the sweet content when hearts 

Are still ; but, ere we met, one whom I loved, 

Back from a new-made grave, had stepped to stab 



32 POEMS. 

Me in the dark ; and all my wrongs arose 

To sweep my heart-strings with their myriad hands. 

As wakes the wild wind-harp, so woke my lyre, 

And strain on strain escaped until the storm 

Of tortured feeling ceased within the calm 

Of thy blest presence. Lost my riches were ; 

And wrecked the barque which held my all in life : 

I stood in terror on the rock-girt shore, 

No voice to pity, and no arm to save — 

Fearing the worst, nor hoping aught of man ! 

Anon, the darkness lifted, and I saw, 

Riding at anchor, on the treacherous sea, 

A noble ship, laden to edge with all 

Which makes life sweet and strong. Straightway, a 

hand 
Was stretched to which I clung : — with hungry heart 
And famished soul eating the angel's food 
You brought, in largess such as great souls yield. 
There is no wealth like that which thou hast given 
To me : — no riches like the treasure thou 
Hast poured from founts exhaustless of thy own ! 
I who was poor am rich ! I bring my lyre 



POEMS. 33 

And break it at thy feet : its need is o'er, 
Since discord and despair can strike its strings 
No more. Thou art my friend ! no greater boon 
Hath earth to give than friendship such as thine ! 




35 



The proof-sheets of the following pages, in the year 
1S79, fell into the hands of one of the most brilliantly 
talented young authors in England, who, not having 
met with the sympathy and appreciation which all 
noble souls crave, fancied it was a weakness of our 
human nature to crave it, and that this craving should 
be suppressed as a weakness. The author had never 
heard anything of the young writer's family, but he had 
a widowed mother with six children, and after read- 
ing this chapter in the proof-sheets, and finding much 
that was suggestive of experiences which had trans- 
pired in his family, he fancied it had been written to 
lay these experiences bare to the public. This was 
the time when he should have been compelled to 
put aside his pen, and to try the diversions of foreign 
travel, the way for which was opened to him. But 
the importance of the advice given was not realized 
until it was too late. He went to John Morley, Esq., 
editor of the Fortnightly Review, and accused him of 
having written this chapter to expose him and his 
views (on the weakness of requiring sympathy) to the 
public. Mr. Morley, who had never heard of the 
story, indignantly expelled the young man from his 
office; after which time his mind became more and 
more unsettled, and learning that the author of the 
Modern Pilgrim's Progress was to sail from Liver- 
pool to New York on the 27th of November, 1879, 



56 



he told his family that this was an intimation that he 
was to die on that day. At the hour on which the 
ocean steamer left the wharf he shot himself, and to 
the memory of this marvellously gifted man the author 
intends to dedicate her work when it is completed. 
She has tried to show, in her story (what this author's 
life and death gives testimony of), the need of human 
sympathy; and that, when denied to such supersen- 
sitive natures, those who deny it are as responsible to 
God as is the murderer. There is more than one 
way of committing murder; and all ways are open 
to God's eyes, and all murderers are known to Him, 
whether slayers of " a good name," or of the soul, 
or only of the mortal part. 




A CHAPTER FROM THE MODERN 
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 

In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth 
upon men, then God openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their 
instruction. — Job 33 : 15. 

BROKEN in heart, wounded in spirit, and ill in 
body, I went to the place of sepulchres, on 
New Year's Eve, that I might seek in the solitude of 
the tombs the peace for which my soul longed. 

As I sat in their midst I slept, and in my sleep a 
vision came to me. The face of the earth seemed 
spread out before me, while, as from an eminence, I 
looked down upon endless undulating meadows ; each 
of which was separated from the other by a little tor- 
rent. Many roads and paths led over these fields; 
some of which had bridges crossing the torrents. 
Wherever there was no bridge, the far shore of the 
torrent was not visible, a thick haze settling down to 
its brink. Some of the roads were thronged with 
pilgrims ; so many upon each that I could scarcely 
discern at first whether there was not one continuous 
throng of persons pressing forward, jostling each other 
on their way; but as I looked steadfastly, I saw that 
some were wending their way alone, some were 
travelling in groups, and others walking hand in hand 
in couples. Then I marvelled as to their destination, 
4 



3§ 



and determined to single out some group, or couple, 
and follow their steps with my eyes. As I did so, I 
became aware of the fact that the beings whom I saw 
were not altogether human ; the peculiarity or differ- 
ence lay in the double face which each one carried, 
and which, invisible at times, every now and then 
revealed itself. 

The two whose course I finally decided to follow 
had their hands joined in companionship, emerging 
from a bower garlanded with flowers, and taking a 
path alone by themselves. One had the form of a 
man in earliest manhood, the other the form of a 
maiden in her youth, and both were comely when the 
face that corresponded to human beings was visible. 
In the man I saw that his sometimes invisible face 
was the face of a satyr; in the woman, a wild mani- 
acal face, with rolling eyes, that ever and anon gleamed 
out and then disappeared. As I looked, they stopped 
where a sandy road crossed diagonally the one they 
were traversing. 

"We will take this road, Mimosa," said the man, 
"it is the straightest to the Golden Castle, where I am 
going to lead thee; " stepping into the arid path he 
had chosen, as he spoke. 

<l Ah, let us stay in the path on which we started, 
Opal, it is so much more beautiful. See, there are no 
flowers growing where thou wishest to lead me, only 
weeds and prickly plants and thorny bushes. I am 
sure there must be noisome reptiles crawling among 
them." 

" Thou thinkest so because thou art a woman, and 



39 



women know nothing. Come where I lead thee, 
and be thankful thou hast some one to guide thee, for 
thou wouldst never have the sense to find the way 
alone. Thou wouldst soon find thyself plunged in 
some pitfall or quicksands from which there is no 
escaping." 

Then I saw Mimosa step bravely and trustingly by 
the side of Opal, casting only one wistful glance back 
at the sweet flowers that bordered the road which they 
left behind them. 

" I could not have believed it, that pitfalls could 
lie on such a lovely path as the one we were in, hadst 
thou not told me, Opal," she said, looking fondly in 
his face. 

" How shouldst thou know, child ? Not that I am 
sure either, that there are any on that particular path, 
but didst thou not observe that it wound in and out 
from the point where we turned ; while this one keeps 
straight across the track that lies between us and the 
Golden Castle? The sooner we reach the Castle 
the more time we shall have to rest, when we get 
there." 

" If I could have my way, I would stop to rest 
whenever I felt tired ; and I would choose all the 
flowery paths to walk in, instead of wading through 
this sand. See, where it is not sandy it is muddy ; 
oh, dear Opal, let us go back to the sweet path we 
left, if you are not sure there are pitfalls there." 

•'Trust me ; I know what is best for us, Mimosa. 
Flowers are of no use ; they will not help us on our 
way, and if you keep your eyes, as I do, on the sand 



4 o 



over which we are going, we may chance to find golden 
ore in it, enough, perhaps, to fill a room of the Golden 
Castle." 

" I do trust thee, my dear husband, but I cannot 
keep my eyes on the ground ; and of what use will 
the golden ore be to us when we reach the Castle of 
Gold ? And then, too, it has neither fragrance nor 
beauty in itself to beguile us on the way, as the lovely 
blossoms have." 

" Thou dost not love me as thou shouldst, if thou 
dost desire anything to beguile thee on thy way. It 
should be enough for thee that I am thy companion. 
If we are all in all to each other, as we should be, 
what matters it what road we take ? " 

" Now, thou hast spoken truly ; for what does it 
matter to thee whether we find golden ore as long as 
we have no need of it, if thou lovest me truly, as I 
am sure thou dost ? And I do have need of the 
flowers that I love so much. Do let us turn back, 
and get away from these stinging nettles. I shall miss 
more and more, at every step, the beautiful flowers 
that my father and my mother planted for me in our 
gardens at home." 

" Then thou hadst better go back to thy garden," 
said Opal. 

" Oh, it hurts me to hear thee say that, my love. 
I do not wish to go back, but let us choose the flower 
path on our journey, because I love flowers so ; and 
thou wilt learn to love them too, in time." As 
Mimosa spoke, they came to a stretch of miry road. 
She hung back, pointing to a tiny foot-path, bordered 



4i 



with roses, just wide enough for them to walk in side 
by side. 

" See, Opal, here is a beautiful path ; we can avoid 
the mire, and pick the roses as we walk." 

He grasped her hand only the tighter, turning his 
satyr face toward her and pulling her on. 

When they had passed through the slough, Mimosa 
said : " I beg thee to sit down by the wayside with 
me, and let me wash my feet, for the mire is cling- 
ing to them. I am very tired too, and I long to 
rest." 

Opal answered mockingly : " Thou canst rest if 
thou hast a mind to stop by the way, but thou knowest 
that I have to push on. Perhaps thou wouldst like 
to go back to thy father's gardens, and rest thyself 
there." 

Mimosa seated herself on a bit of rock by the road- 
side, and looked up at him. I saw it was the maniacal 
ace that she turned toward him as she said, " Thou 
canst go thy way, and if I am too weary to overtake 
thee, I will go back to the gardens of my father." 

Opal's satyr face glowed with rage, and, stooping, 
he gathered a branch of a thorny vine that was grow- 
ing by the road, and twisting it into a wreath he threw 
it over her head. It fell so that the longest and 
the sharpest thorns pierced her white bosom, and 
brought the blood to the skin just where her heart lay. 
Then Opal kept on his way, and Mimosa sat alone by 
the roadside, wiping the mire from her feet, and wash- 
ing them with her tears. Now and then, some of the 
pilgrims who passed, stopped to ask if they could 



help her on her way, or if they could carry any bur- 
dens for her; but she always answered in a brave 
voice : — " I do not trust my burdens to others to carry 
for me, and I only sit here to rest, until I am strong 
enough to carry my own load." 

When at last Mimosa saw that her feet were quite 
clean, she arose, put on her sandals, and still wear- 
ing the thorn-wreath, pressed on to overtake Opal. 

It was now near nightfall, yet there was no pil- 
grim station in sight, or halting-place for the night. 
But as Mimosa kept wearily on, she saw Opal stand- 
ing under a huge thorn tree, by the entrance to a 
cave. He made as though he did not see her, al- 
though he had been watching for her approach, be- 
fore she appeared in sight. At this moment a small, 
humpbacked pilgrim, called False Pride, touched 
Mimosa on the shoulder and said : 

" Come on with me ; I will find thee better lodg- 
ings than thou canst get in the dungeon home of De- 
pression;" but not heeding him, she fixed her eyes 
on Opal, the eyes of her human face, and walking 
straight up to him said : 

" I know that thou art sorry thou didst drag me 
through the filthy mire against my will; and that 
thou wouldst have grieved for me, and turned back 
for me if I had not pressed on to overtake thee." 

" I am not sorry," answered Opal, " and thou must 
ask my forgiveness for asserting thy will against 
mine, before I will take thee back." 

" I cannot ask thy forgiveness when I have not 
done aught that my conscience accuses me for ; but 



43 



thou knowest I cannot be happy until thou art pleased 
with me again." 

" Say thou art sorry, and then I will take thee 
back." 

"I am sorry lhat thou art so unreasonable, and so 
unjust; thou art never just to me, Opal, when we do 
not think alike. Because we are different, it need 
not make us unjust or disagreeable to each other ; 
but if thou wilt not be sullen to me as heretofore, 
when I have displeased thee, I will try never to ask 
thee for any blossoms again; and I will go wher- 
ever thou leadest me, for how can two walk together 
unless they are agreed ?" 

Then I saw that Opal's heart was touched; the 
leering, mocking, satyr-face disappeared entirely, and 
tears started into his human eyes. Just then the little 
humpback came up and whispered in his ear : " Thou 
hast won a victory ; wives, subject yourselves to your 
husbands in all things, says the Apostle. If thou 
wouldst continue the master, show no weakness." 
So Opal turned away to hide his tears, and Mimosa, 
who did not know that his heart was swelling with 
tenderness for her, fell prone at his feet across the 
entrance to the cave, and was taken up senseless and 
carried down to the dungeon ; where I was permitted 
in my vision to follow her. 

* # * # * 

Now, while Mimosa was lying ill in the dungeon 
of Depression, she said to her nurse, Patience, when 
she awoke from sleep : 

" I have been dreaming ; I thought Opal brought 



44 



me some flowers, and I was so happy, until he told 
me we must press on to the Golden Castle. I won- 
der if the Castle lies near the gates of the Eternal 
City ? Patience, dost thou think that those who stain 
their feet with the mire of life can enter those 
gates ?" 

" There be many that strive and few that enter, it 
is said," continued Patience, " but my own idea is, 
that all who wish to get in, will get in, if they do not 
turn back on the way. Hast thou ever heard what 
terrible experiences come to those who start, and then 
turn back ?" 

" Ah, I have no thought of turning back," answered 
Mimosa. " I fear most dying on the way, before I 
reach the gates ; it is such a long weary way to walk, 
when there are no flowers to gather to gladden the 
heart ; and I am sure the good God never meant to 
have any of His children walk in such a path as 
Opal has chosen. It is fit only for the beasts of the 
field, who care nothing for flowers, and for animals 
that wallow in their own mire." 

Before Patience had time to answer, the curtain 
that hung before the entrance of the cavern chamber, 
where Mimosa lay, was lifted, and Depression en- 
tered, bearing in his arms an oblong casket, with a 
glass window at one end. 

" I have brought thee my reflector," he said to 
Mimosa, " invented by and named after Reflection, 
one of the guides to the Eternal City, who bestows 
great aid upon those who call upon him for service. 
I know of many whom he has helped to retrace their 



45 



steps after they had turned aside to wander in forbid- 
den paths. Wilt thou look in the instrument ? It 
sets forth in tableaux, with figures that speak and 
move, the course of one who started for the Eternal 
City, and who was held back by her husband and 
children, who would not let her depart. But thou 
must not be discouraged by what thou seest. All 
pilgrims do not have to pass through such terrible 
scenes before they are relieved from the pangs of 
earthly love." 

" I shall not be easily discouraged," answered 
Mimosa, " for I counted the cost before I started ; 
only I am grieved because Opal cares more to reach 
the Golden Castle than the Eternal City ; then, too, 
he will not help me on the way. He might so easily 
lift me over the rough places in his strong arms, and 
let me walk around the muddy places that I loathe 
so, instead of plunging through them in his haste to 
get to the Castle, where he says I shall rest with him 
as long as I like, and have all the roses that I want. 
Now that I am ill, he has to stop; and after this, 
perhaps he will not tire me so, but will let me rest 
by the way. When one has been accustomed to 
flowers, it is hard to walk where only thorns grow ; 
and I love flowers more than anything else in the 
world. Opal says I shall have everything that 
money can buy when we get to the Golden Castle ; 
but it may be years before we get there ; and I 
would rather have some wild flowers every day 
now, than all the gorgeous blossoms then that ever 



46 



burst their lives away under tropical suns, or in 
hot-house windows; I would indeed." 

" I am sure thou wouldst," said Depression, ar- 
ranging the burnished metal which threw light on the 
scenes within the reflector. " There, now thou canst 
look in." 

" Oh, how lovely ! Oh, how lovely !" exclaimed 
Mimosa. 

" What dost thou see ?" asked Patience. 

« I see Paradise ; flowing fountains, statuary that 
might have been chiselled by Praxiteles ; great beds 
of roses of all hues, and each bed of one hue ; crim- 
son, gold, pink, ruby, white, blush ; alleys of fern- 
like plants with blossoms of flame and snow alternat- 
ing; every beautiful plant and flower that the eye 
ever saw ; and a marble palace with a river flowing 
at the back ; and now I see a woman approaching the 
river; she is going to step into a gondola that is wait- 
ing for her. No, she is held back by her husband, 
who has followed her; I know it is her husband, be- 
cause she looks up at him with such tenderness in 
her eyes ; and in his I see a worshipping fondness. 
Now, three, four, five, six daughters and sons come 
down the terrace, catching hold of their mother's gar- 
ments, saying: "We will not let our mother go!" 
They kneel around her, they kiss her hands, entreat- 
ing her not to leave them. Hark ! she speaks ! 
"Why do you hold me back, my darlings? I have heard 
the voice of the messenger, summoning me to go with 
him to the Eternal City. I may not stay with you, 
my dear ones; I must be gone; the messenger waits; 



47 



prevent not my going." The husband says : " What 
would become of me without thee ? Thou must not 
go." The children say: "We cannot part with our 
mother; we must go also, if thou wilt depart." The 
woman hesitates, looking back upon them all with 
her eyes full of love! Oh, so full of love! How 
beautiful to see such love ! Now she puts her arm 
around two of the daughters, and chants : 

" Not a blessing broods above you 

But it lifts me from the ground; 
Not a thistle-barb doth sting you 

But I suffer from the wound. 
Though I leave you, precious darlings, 

You will never be alone ; 
I shall sorrow when you sorrow, 

I shall shiver when you moan !" 

She turns to the gondola, but while she paused to 
embrace her children, it floated out in the river, and 
she is left on the shore. 

"I will come back for thee," cries the gondolier. 
" Beckon, if thou wishest me, and I will return." 

" I thought thou wast sent to take me to the Eternal 
City," she answers. 

" I was sent to see if thou art ready to go," he 
said. 

" If it is permitted me to choose, I will stay yet 
a little longer; for I fear I should be wretched even 
in Paradise, if I thought my darlings needed me 
here," she replies. 

" Thou hast chosen !" the gondolier shouts back, 
as his gondola glides swiftly away. " Thou hast 



4 8 



chosen ! It would have been better for thee, I fear, 
if thou hadst said : ' Thy will, my God, be done!' " 
Now, all is melting away, like a dissolving view ; 
and I see only a gray and golden smoke, rolling in 
billows, which breaks, as I look, in the centre, part- 
ing like curtains on either side, disclosing a desolate 
scene. A wild, devastated tract, with patches of 
black, burnt stubble, checkered with sere vegetation, 
slopes down to a torrent spanned by no bridge, but 
with a crossing of stepping-stones far apart. On the 
summit of the slope I see a newly made grave, not 
yet sodded, looming up against a background of 
black sky : around it are seven kneeling figures. 
The silence of death is broken by the sobs of the 
children only; for the widow, with calm confidence, 
looks up into the blue heavens above her, as though 
she heard a voice summoning her to follow her be- 
loved one. Now they rise and turn to leave the 
grave. The most anxious care is bestowed upon the 
mother, her steps are guided, her arms supported ; 
every pebble is removed from her path. Suddenly 
the sky is overcast, darkness shrouds the scene. 
There comes flying through the air a swarm of crea- 
tures with bat-like wings and demon faces, swooping 
down upon the group, and bearing away the children 
in their talons. The mother, thus left alone, turns 
helplessly from right to left, and from left to right, in 
her vain search for the earthly stays that she was 
leaning upon. She stretches her arms, calling pite- 
ously after them. At last she realizes that she is 
alone, and with an anguished cry of despair she stag- 



49 



gers on, shaping her course for the torrent, beyond 
which there seems to rise from a thick haze- the turrets 
of a city. As she pushes on, scorpions crawl out 
from their nests, and venomous reptiles hiss after her. 
On either side of her path two demons stalk or lie in 
wait, one is the fiend Insanity, the other Palsy, who 
every now and then strikes at her with his shaking 
fist. At first she did not see them; but now she 
rushes on, stumbling in her terror, and even calling 
upon her lost children to help her on her way. " My 
darlings, come back and drive these fiends from my 
path !" she screams again and again. The air rings 
with the agony of her cries, until nearing the torrent 
she sees a sentinel pacing its brink. 

" Is this the stream of Death ?" she asks. " If so, 
wilt not thou help me across ? for I am ill and weary 
of my life." 

" Nay." answers the sentinel. " This little torrent 
is the barrier between the old year and the new. 
Take good heart, woman, for on the other shore thou 
mayst find the health and happiness which thou hast 
lost on this side." 

Now she presses her hand on her forehead and 
talks to herself of the little rustic bridges which she 
used to build in the youth of her children to help 
them across, garlanding them with wreaths of ever- 
green, and scarlet-berried holly ; hanging pretty 
playthings to beguile them on their way. She 
moans piteously, " Ah, they have forgotten that I was 
so near the torrent, or they would not have left me 
until they had helped me across, this first year that I 
5 



5° 



have been without their father's strong arm to lean 
upon. Oh, they could not have known how ill I am ! 
I will wait here awhile and call after them ; and 
when they hear me they will come back out of pity 
for me in my unspeakable desolation." The sun sets 
and rises, the days come and go, and she waits pa- 
tiently until the last night of the old year. Then she 
cries out in her despair : " Oh, my children ! my chil- 
dren ! if not one of you can return to guide my feeble 
steps, send me the staff of Sympathy that, supported 
by it, I may reach the other side, and not lose my 
footing in the torrent, nor be overtaken by the 
fiends." 

As she calls strange shadows flit around her, indis- 
tinct and formless. A voice from one of them an- 
swers, " Esculapius told us not to give thee the staff, 
that thou wilt get along better without it ; and that 
it is only a fancy of thine that fiends are pursuing 
thee." 

She presses one hand to her head and one to her 
heart, as though she had been struck both head and 
heart by a sudden blow. 

" Wilt thou believe Esculapius instead of thy 
mother ? He knows me not ; I am not like those 
who lean too heavily and break the staff of Sympathy ; 
nor is it fancy that the fiends pursue me, for I have 
felt their blows. By and by, when I get well and 
strong I will not trouble thee ; but now I pray thee 
get me the staff, and I will return it as soon as I can 
walk alone. I would not be a burden to my chil- 
dren, but I fear the time will come when you will 



5* 



have to take me up and carry me, if I am left in this 
my hour of sore need without any staff to lean 
upon." 

" Esculapius says that thou art as well able to 
walk as I am ; that thou dost only fancy thyself ill, 
and that we must not humor thee, or we will make 
thee worse," are the words that come from a second 
shadow. 

" Oh, my darlings ! am I not your mother ? have 
I not been a good mother? Have I ever turned 
away from you, when you called upon me for help ? 
Can you not trust me then when I tell you that Escu- 
lapius ignorantly measures all alike with his Procrus- 
tean rule. I am not as they are whom he judges me 
by. I cannot walk alone, or I would do so, and 
trouble no one, my darlings. Come and help me, 
and listen no more to the cruel words of Esculapius." 
-A third shadow answers : " Have we not lost our 
father, and are we not going our way without lean- 
ing upon thee ? Why dost thou reproach us, and 
trouble us with thy repinings ?" 

A fourth shadow flits nearer, saying : •" The sooner 
thou learnest to walk alone, the better ; if we give 
thee the staff, thou wilt always expect it." 

" No, we will not give it to thee," says the fifth 
shadow, and a sixth echoes the words. 

Now the woman rises, and growing strong in her 
despair, stands upright. She lifts up her hands to 
the heavens, and exclaims, "O God! these my off- 
spring, whom I nourished at my breast, and reared 
through their childhood, and trained in their youth — 



52 



whose joys have been my joys and whose sorrows 
have been my sorrows, whose love is all that I have 
left to live for — they have bitten my heart and torn 
my breast with the fangs of ingratitude, until I long 
for the grave wherein to hide my grief, and to escape 
from the demons which Anguish and Despair have 
set upcn my path!" 

As she spoke the last words she fell in a swoon, 
and the shadows flitted away and disappeared, leav- 
ing her lying on the ground. An angel comes down 
out of the sky, and bending over her breathes upon 
her. She turns wearily, as one turns in troubled 
sleep, and lifts herself slowly up, looking in a be- 
wildered way around her. She seems to have for- 
gotten the shadows and their voices; or, if she recalls 
them, it is to her as a dream ; for she says, " I have 
been sleeping, and have not yet crossed the torrent. 
I will ' be brave,' though I am weak ; perchance 
Death may meet me on the other side ; or, should 
health return, I may still be of use to my dear ones. 
O, my daughter ! my darling ! put out thy dear hand 
and guide me, for I am weak in body and soul, and 
the darkness of night has overtaken me." 

A voice comes from the distance : 

" Why canst thou not be the kind, unselfish mother 
that thou wast once, whom I so idolized, and not con- 
tinue to reproach me, and call upon me to sustain 
thee ?" 

Tears are streaming down the woman's pallid 
cheeks now, as she steps one foot, alone and without 
any staff, on the first stepping-stone. 



53 



** Come thou, my son, and lead me over and well 
on my way, until I pass those gleaming turrets which 
may rise from some madhouse, into which the fiend 
Insanity will drive me in my weakness if I have no 
one to protect me. Come, my son !" 

" Esculapius told me not to listen to thee, and I 
will not stay within the sound of thy voice if thou 
callest on me any more. Thou art quite as well able 
to cross as I am, and thou must learn to walk without 
support, for now thou hast lost thy best friend, thou 
wilt not soon find another to humor thee in thy 
fancies." 

At these words the woman reeled as she walked, 
losing her balance at last, and almost falling in the 
torrent ; but the same angel that breathed upon her 
is by her side, holding her up and supporting her. 
With quivering lips and eyes streaming with tears she 
speaks : 

" He knows not what he is saying, but the day will 
come when it will be given to him to know the worth 
of the heart he has broken. I have one more hope ; 
perchance my carrier dove may bring me a missive, 
which will cheer my heart and help me to reach the 
border land of the new year." As she ceases to 
speak she looks steadfastly into the sky, and she sees 
the evening star rising over the black hill-tops throb- 
bing with its fulness of golden light. 

" O, beautiful star ! thou hast risen anew to light 
my steps; but no, I feel the cold wind sweeping 
down from Arctic seas, and driving thick clouds be- 
tween us, and no carrier dove comes with the lines I 
5* 



54 



long for ! O, my children ! I would have died for 
you, but I did more. I lived for you, through seas 
of trouble that you knew not of! Do not desert me, 
now that for the first time in my mother-life I need 
you more than you need me ! I have lost my sole 
support, thy father, in whom I trusted, and whose 
arm was always ready to support me as his heart was 
ready to sympathize with me; help me, until I reach 
the other bank, and move this obstacle in the stream 
that bars my progress, I pray you !" 

As she speaks she reaches toward a shadow that is 
near her, but the shadow approaches only to push 
treacherously the object nearer, so that the woman 
stumbles and falls over into the stream. I see the 
angel once more returning to her, accompanied by a 
second spirit ; together they lift her and carry her 
between them across the torrent. As they float away 
from her, the ground beneath her feet crumbles, and 
once more in wild desperation she stretches out her 
hands calling : " My children ! my children ! I am 
not afraid of Death, but I am afraid of the fiends 
that dog my footsteps and break the ground from 
under me. Do not leave me to be dragged into their 
dens, as I surely will be without your support and 
without one ray of light to guide me in this thick 
darkness. I can render you services in the land that 
lies beyond, as I have in the past. Oh, help me ! 
help me !" 

The sentinel of the new year speaks to her: 
"Art thou mad, woman? If so, I will call a 
keeper." 



55 



" No, I am not yet mad ; but call the keeper ; for 
I will be grateful to him if he will lead me where 
my brain can get some rest." 

" Pass on to the tribunal yonder, where all are tried 
for their deeds done on the other side of the stream. 
"When thou hast received acquittal, or sentence, as 
the case may be, then take the road to the right, and 
the first turning will bring thee to a madhouse, where 
thou wilt find a keeper." 

The woman walks on, with one hand held over 
her forehead as in pain, and reaches the tribunal. 

"Woman, where are thy accusers?" asks the 
judge. 

" I know not that I have any accusers," she 
answers. 

As she speaks, a cowled shadow confronts her. 

" I am thy accuser," it says. 

" Of what dost thou accuse me ?" she asks. 

"Of thinking of thyself instead of others." 

" What hast thou to say in answer ?" asks the 
judge. 

A wan smile comes in the woman's face, and with 
quivering lips she says : 

"God is my judge. He who knoweth all things 
needeth not that I should answer." 

" Thou canst not be permitted to show contempt 
here ; answer, hast thou, indeed, lived wholly for 
thyself?" 

" Were my dead here they would answer for me ; 
but, as I cannot prove my words nor my acts, I will 
make no other answer than that God is my judge." 



56 



" Go on, accuser; what other charge hast thou to 
bring ? " 

" Of injustice, partiality, untrustworthiness, and 
selfishness." 

"What is thy answer, woman?" 

" I have striven to do justly, walk humbly, and to 
deal mercifully and unselfishly with all. Here, also, 
let God be my judge ? " 

" What is the next charge ? " 

" Self-glorification, and making herself as one in- 
spired." 

" What dost thou answer?" 

" Nay, nay, I have not glorified myself; that would 
be impossible; for it is God that worketh in me to 
will and to do of his own good pleasure. It has of- 
tentimes perplexed me that He hath chosen me for 
one of His vessels, and conferred upon me a gift 
spoken of by the Apostle in our Holy Scriptures. I 
have marvelled that God hath raised me up to the 
office which I have so unworthily fulfilled, but never 
have I failed to give Him the glory, and to say that 
of myself I can do nothing." 

" What other charge is there ? " 

" She is always in the right, in her own opinion ?" 

" What hast thou to say, woman ? " 

"Would that I were; my frequent short-comings 
are not because of my desire to do that which is 
wrong, but rather because of the infirmities of hu- 
manity which cannot be wholly overcome in this 
world ; though I have never yet ceased to strive for 
the victory which is promised to all who endure to 



57 



the end. When I am wrong I strive to make 
amends." 

" Hast thou any other charge ? " 

" She worries everyone with her explanations, her 
self-defence, and her demands for sympathy." 

" What answer dost thou make ? " 

" I know not that I have demanded sympathy ; I 
have given much, and I could not but expect it in 
return. I plead guilty of self-defence and explana- 
tion, for I could never endure the thought that any 
one whom I loved or respected could believe me 
guilty of deeds that would make me unworthy of 
their love, or of their respect." 

" What other charge is there ? " 

" She is a lover of fulsome flattery." 

" To the extent of being led by it into unseemly 
acts and sinful deeds? For, if it is not so, this 
charge must be passed over, since all human beings 
are susceptible to flattery ; and only those who are 
led into evil because of it are hurt by it. All flattery 
is fulsome to those whom it does not concern. Name 
the next charge, accuser." 

" She squanders money, and gives no account of 
it. No one knows how, or on whom she makes way 
with money that is not her own." 

" What hast thou to say, woman ? " 

" It is false ! What moneys I have disbursed were 
my own, and I hold vouchers that I have spent all in 
worthy causes and on worthy objects. Show me thy 
face, coward, for this charge betrays thee as the false 
accuser that thou art." 



5* 



The judge lifts the cowl, and the woman reels for- 
ward as if she had received a mortal wound, and 
drops on her knees before the tribunal. Now the 
angels appear, the cowled shadow flits away, and the 
angels lift the woman to her feet. 

Her face is blanched, her hair is no longer gray, 
but white, and her lips are bloodless. 

" Guilty, or not guilty?" asks the judge. 

" God is my judge, who sees the heart." 

" Why didst thou quail before thy accuser, if thou 
art not guilty ? " 

" Must I answer ? " 

" It is imperative, if thou wouldst not be detained 
in prison." 

" Because my accuser is one whom I have loved — 
one whom I have fed and clothed with kindness, 
and I am a widow in the first months of my widow- 
hood." 

" Though thy sins be many, all are forgiven thee ; 
pass on." 

She reels now as one reels who has had a death- 
blow. But, see ! a carrier dove appears flying toward 
her ! She gives a cry, half anguish and half joy, 
and stretches out both hands for the missive. Ah ! it 
is an arrow, and so cunningly devised that as she 
takes it in her hand it works its way to her heart. 
Another shaft comes whizzing through the air, aimed 
at her temple, and with the blood flowing from the 
wound it has made, she falls backward and is 
caught in the arms of the angel, who has not left 
her since she fell at the feet of the judge. 



59 



" Who is holding me ? " she asks. " Is it thou, 
sweet, gentle Death? I have longed for thee so 
much. Take me to my true-hearted dead ! " 

The angel answers : 

" I am the angel Sympathy — an angel of life ; not 
an angel of death. This, my companion, is one of 
the ministering spirits of the angel Health, and we 
have come to restore thee ; thou art not yet ready to 
die, for thou hast not learned to call upon thy Cre- 
ator; the Father of Love, who pitieth his children 
in all their sorrows; the Lord of Sympathy, who 
helps all who call upon his name. Thou hast called 
only upon thy children. Thou hast loved the crea- 
ture more than the Creator ! " 

" Ah, accuse me not ! I am weary of accusations ! 
If I love not my children whom I have seen, how can I 
love God whom I have not seen ? I fear not to pass 
into His presence. He judgeth not as men judge; 
nor does He weigh our failures against our efforts. 
Take me to Him, that I may find peace." 

" This I am not permitted to do, until of thy own 
free will thou seekest His arm to lean upon, instead 
of the arms of thy children, upon whom thou hast 
not ceased to call for support since thou wert stricken 
to the dust by thy sore bereavement." 

" Is it God's will, then, that I turn from the chil- 
dren whom He gave to me ? Can I serve Him better 
than through my love for them, which taught me the 
strength of His love for me ? " 

" It is God's will that His children submit their 
wills to His own. He ordains that every human soul 



6o 



shall pass through the Gethsemane of life to the place 
of crucifixion, learning, through Calvary's lesson, to 
say : " Thy will, my God, be done ! " 

A holy light beams over the awful sadness of the 
woman's face, as she repeats the words : " Thy will, 
my God, be done ! " 

Hark ! she is chanting now : 

" I knew not it was Thou, or else 

I would not so have murmured, Lord, 
To find my gushing fountains sealed, 
My palm trees fallen on the sward. 

" I knew not whence the arrows flew, 

That rent my bleeding heart in twain, 
For had I known Thine was the mark, 
I could have borne the torturing pain. 

" I knew not that Thy guiding love 
Decreed, from idols I had made, 
I must be torn to do Thy will, 
And, knowing not, I was afraid 1 

" But now I know that it is Thou, 

Welcome the loss, the pain, the strife, 
For whatsoever be Thy will, 
Shall also be my will in life." 

Ah ! now, there start forward, out of the dark- 
ness, loving human forms, no longer shadows, hasten- 
ing toward her and surrounding her. 

" Where have you been, my darlings? I have been 
pursued by demons and mocked by shadows. Fright- 
ful visions have seemed like realities to me. I 
thought I had lost you all, forever ! " 



6i 



" We have been held back by the powers of evil," 
answers one, " but our heartstrings were tugging to 
get to thee." 

" Only that it was God's will, we could not have 
stayed away from thee so long," says another. 

" He permitted these fiends to have control of us, 
in order that his purposes might be accomplished," 
says a third. 

Now one of the sons speaks : 

" Ah, that mock tribunal, where I saw a spirit of 
darkness personating myself! I thought my heart 
would break when I found how my hands and feet 
were pinioned, and saw how thou wast suffering, yet 
could not reach thee." 

" Though Esculapius held me back," says another 
son, " he could not have done so, had not Providence 
made him His instrument, for I could have broken 
away from him, and flown to thee had he been en- 
dowed with only human strength." 

Now the mother embraces each child in turn, and 
kisses them one by one, tenderly. 

" Thou art coming with us, never to be separated 
from us again," says one. 

She answers : " You no longer have need of me, 
my dear ones, and I go to do the work for which I 
have been prepared. Keep fast hold of each other, 
live in love, be compassionate one toward another, 
and we shall meet in Eternity." 

The angel Sympathy takes her by the hand, and 
leaning upon him he leads her away out of their 
sight. 

6 



62 



As Mimosa ceased speaking she closed the instru- 
ment, and heaving a long sigh, said : 

" I am glad to know that the shadows were not her 
children, for had they been, it would have made me 
wish never to have any children of my own." 

" Oh, children are a great drag, sometimes, to those 
who are in haste to get to the Eternal City," answered 
Patience. 

" But they must help to make the road less tedious. 
I would not like to think that Opal and I will never 
have any little ones ; but if we have children I will 
not forget the lesson I have learned to-day; I will 
call upon God when in trouble, and not upon my 
children." 

" It is a good lesson to learn," answered Patience, 
" and thou wilt do well to teach it to others on thy 
way. It would be hard indeed if each human being 
had to learn it by such terrible experience as the poor 
widow had; but all who will may help to lighten 
their pound of the world's woe, by tender ministra- 
tions, and teachings, that ward off suffering. The 
farther you walk on the road to the Eternal City the 
farther you can see, and the more you can help 
others." 

" I will remember what thou hast said," replied 
Mimosa, " and as I walk I will try to help all who 
suffer. If I meet Esculapius I will entreat him not 
to seek to deprive any one of what our Saviour so 
abundantly bestowed on all; for it is what we are 
most called upon to bestow on one another. Dost 



63 



thou know what became of the children when the 
angel Sympathy led their mother away from them?" 

" They had not travelled far before they found that 
they needed her. I will tell thee some day all that 
happened ; but now thou must go to sleep, and I will 
watch beside thee, as thy mother would watch, to 
keep all noise away." 

" There is no love like a mother's love, and thou 
art kind to take such care of me," said Mimosa, as 
she lay back on her white pillow, while Patience sat 
within call, just outside of the curtain. 




SLANDER AND GOSSIP. 

COMPILED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS AND DEDI- 
CATED TO ALL WHO RETURN EVIL FOR GOOD. 



" There will come 
Alike the day of trial unto all, 
And the rude world will buffet us alike. 

***** 
But when the silence and the calm come on, 
And the high seal of character is set, 
We shall not all be similar. The flow 
Of lifetime is a graduated scale; 
And deeper than the vanities of power, 
Or the vain pomp of fashion, there is set 
A standard measuring our worth for heaven.' 



" Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves 
about with sparks : walk in the light of your fire, and the sparks 
that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand ; ye 
shall lie down in sorrow." — Isaiah 50 : 11. 

Bulwer has said, " It makes one ashamed of human 
nature to think that the reward which the world be- 
stows on those who brighten its dulness and delight 
its leisure, is — slander." No one, inventor, author, 
singer, actress, or private citizen, who has attained 
success of any kind, can hope to escape slander. Dr. 
Holland tells us that the cure for gossip is culture ; 
6* 



66 



but there is no cure for slander ! It must be crushed 
in the embryo egg, or it will hatch an ever-increasing 
brood. There never was but one falser sentiment 
than "silence is the best answer to calumny." It is 
only applicable to such great men as Washington and 
others, whose lives stand out clear and pure before 
the public. " Speak only good of the dead," is 
another sentiment which embodies a maudlin and 
dishonest pathos. I hold that of the dead, as of the 
living, what ought to be spoken is the truth. Let 
all the infirmities of the dead be buried in the grave 
with the body, all that has been of evil, which it is 
not necessary to remember, for the protection, or the 
defence, or for the good, of the living. " Truth is the 
strong thing, therefore let man's life be true," writes 
Browning, and both men and women would strive 
more earnestly to make their lives true, if. there were 
not so much of false sentiment prevailing in reference 
to " the sacred dead." There is an old saying, " As 
a man is, so his ghost is." Death cannot change the 
character, but it causes us to forget all the frailties of 
life when the effect of those frailties is not left be- 
hind, sowing dragons' teeth, which spring up like 
armed men to dispute every foot of ground over 
which the path of life lies. But, when no sooner is 
one wrong laid in the grave than another rises up, so 
that the sword can never rest in the scabbard, and we 
know that all might have been saved, had but our 
dead been true and loyal ; then we cannot bury that 
which will not stay buried ! It comes back like some 
horrid spectre, denying us even the luxury of grief. 



67 



This age will hold its own for inveracity among all 
the ages of the past; but it bids fair to eclipse the 
ages of Tiberius and Nero in its reckless assaults 
upon reputation. That men should deliberately and 
day after day defame public men and assault women 
in the public prints, has ceased to surprise anybody. 

Frequency blunts the edge of murder even 

But we cannot help thinking that this age of scandal 
will finally pass away, and be remembered and re- 
ferred to pretty much in the same fashion as the era 
of witchcraft is remembered and referred to. The 
public press is greatly responsible for this prevailing 
inveracity. It gives credence to, and perpetuates the 
unspeakably mean utterances of the slanderer and 
the scandal- monger. A writer in the Washington 
Republican says of this class of beings : " It is their 
office to defame virtue and despoil worth, to feed on 
the failings of the good and fatten on the follies of 
the weak. Vile themselves, without a sentiment of 
honor or decency, they cannot endure to see others 
respected for traits they do not possess, or beloved 
for conduct of which they are incapable. Hence 
they make the estate of purity the prey of their pira- 
cies and the object of their plunder. Nothing is so 
sacred as to deter them, and no eminence is beyond 
their attack. Is there a man who stands high in the 
estimation of the public by reason of the excellence 
of his character and the quality of his endowments, 
they rest not until they have smirched the one and 
disparaged the other by the fiendish devices of innu- 
endo and insinuations, which constitute the weapons 



68 



of the guilty ambush they keep in perpetual reserve 
for those they dare not openly assail for fear of pop- 
ular resentment. Lives there a woman whose fair 
fame transcends the plane of ordinary attainments, 
because of special attributes, accomplishments, and 
graces, all the precedents of successful calumny and 
falsehood are ransacked for suggestion of means to 
depose and humiliate her, without subjecting the 
authors of the detraction to the punishment they 
deserve." 

So goes the world, one portion of its inhabitants 
striving to be worthy of the general esteem, and to 
achieve the highest blessings of life for all, while the 
other portion strains every nerve to pull the aspiring 
down to the baser level of vulgar existence and vile 
enjoyments itself attains and enjoys. And unceas- 
ingly have the good in all ages labored to solve the 
problem of morals involved in human instincts and 
agencies, hoping ever and anon to arrive at such a 
knowledge of the subject as should enable them to 
lift up the debased, and reclaim the fallen, and to 
establish such associations and institutions among 
men as should ultimately remove class antagonism in 
so far as to admit of brethren dwelling together in 
unity, and to secure general peace and fellowship. 
But we fear that while man remains mortal, and 
therefore frail, this consummation so devoutly to be 
wished for will remain in abeyance, and the good 
with which philosophers and philanthropists would 
crown the happiness of the world, will be reserved 
for the eternal possession. We have no such hope 



o 9 



as that which animates the Utopian believer; and 
the great obstacle in the way of the realization is the 
spirit of envy which prompts the tongue of the slan- 
derer. Jealousy is the disturber of the harmony of 
all interests, and unless by the interposition of Provi- 
dence men are made better by supplemental inspira- 
tion, it will continue to tear down as fast as love and 
labor shall build up; and the purposes and pleasures 
of the good must be forever marred by the will and 
wickedness of the bad. Forever must virtue suffer 
from the whispered intimations of vice, and honor 
bow before the imputations of shame. 

" I am used to running the gauntlet," said Tupper 
one day to a friend, " and don't care a bit for slan- 
der, ridicule, or even libel. Let them rave. No 
shuttlecock can fly aloft without battledores ; and I 
know well that all such only help success." 

There are others again who have to bring in Chris- 
tian principle to help them bear slander and misrep- 
resentations, — sensitive to praise and to blame, — who, 
while they pity and forgive, suffer if they cannot 
make explanations to remove the odium thrown upon 
them by misrepresentation and falsehood ; but no one 
can have an opportunity of explaining all such charges, 
even were it desirable to do so, so that those upon 
whom stigmas are unjustly affixed often have no re- 
source but to bear them. It is better to try to forget 
the petty meannesses and trickeries of our kind in re- 
calling the acts and words of noble men and women, 
which stand like wayside shrines all along the paths 
of some lives, " for the noble attract each other," and 



7o 



the Scripture truth is always repeating itself that to 
him who hath shall be given. 

If society would maintain that esprit de corps 
which would lead its members to support those who 
are worthy of respect, never permitting their actions 
to be arraigned by the narrow-minded, sneered at by 
the envious, or distorted by the tale-bearing detractor, 
how much might be abated of the power exercised 
by evil natures, slanderous tongues, and thoughtless 
brains ? But as long as the very kindness of heart 
which shapes the course of some members of society 
is made to confront them in some odious form, as 
long as there is so little of that charity that thinketh 
no evil, and so much of that credence of the vilest 
insinuations that it would seem only demons could 
breathe, it is as Utopian to look for any esprit de 
corps in society as to look for a change of character 
in the depraved, or for angelic natures in the human. 

Still, no one should be deterred from attempting 
to put some check on the slander and calumny which 
mislead the judgment by the thought of the little one 
can accomplish single-handed, working for any good, 
or warring with any evil. The world would have 
remained stationary, as in the dark ages, had all men 
reasoned this way. The great art of doing much is 
doing a little at a time. Many who hold it in bad 
form to repeat the stories of envious women, and 
the tales of club rooms, are withheld from openly 
discountenancing them from the fear of seeming to 
set themselves up as leaders, or reformers, or from 
the dread of ridicule. 



71 



Sneers and ridicule have been called the weapons of 
small souls and silly minds, but it is well known that 
people who use ridicule as a weapon of assault, are 
often able to command powerful results for the time 
being, and to thwart the efforts of larger souls and 
nobler minds, which reminds one of what Ruskinsays, 
writing of base criticism : " In all things, whatsoever, 
there is not, to my mind, a more wilful, a more woful, 
or wonderful matter of thought than the power of a 
fool. In the world's affairs there is no design so 
great or good, but it will take twenty wise men to 
move it forward a few inches, and a single fool can 
stop it ; there is no evil so great or terrible but that, 
after a multitude of counsellors have taken means to 
avert it, a single fool will bring it down." There- 
fore, those who move in works of philanthropy must 
expect no sudden reforms, must not be frightened by 
sneers, nor discouraged by ridicule, for the race of 
fools is not dead yet. Philanthropists sow the seed, 
and leave the harvest for another generation to reap. 
Fools can trample down the sprouting blades, and 
then the seeds must take their chance for another 
spring-time. Happily, nothing can destroy their 
vitality. The truths of inspiration — and all truth is 
inspired — are mighty, and will prevail. The weak 
thing, weaker than a child, becomes a strong thing 
one day if it be a true thing, Carlyle tells us ; but 
even were we sure that failure would be the result of 
all effort, there is that in the exercise and culture of 
our powers that brings compensation with it. They 
who would know the true enjoyment of life must 



72 



learn that no pleasure can satisfy the mind as work 
does when the head and the heart are interested in 
it. Dickens showed his knowledge of human nature 
when he made Nicholas Nickleby say : " So these 
are some of the stories they invent about us, and 
bandy from mouth to mouth. If a man would com- 
mit an inexpiable offence against any society, large 
or small, let him be successful. They will forgive 
him anything but that." 

It is sad to learn by experience the power of the 
envious. The old and vulgar adage of giving a dog 
a bad name, is exemplified but too often in the lives 
of individuals. Many men have the bad name, 
unjustly given, clinging to them to the end of life. 
Many a young man is defamed by an envious rival ; 
many a woman whose social success has been bril- 
liant, is maligned by those who hate the excellence 
they cannot reach ; many a benefactor misrepresented 
and calumniated by the ones who owed him, perhaps, 
more than they owed those who brought them into 
the world. It has been said to be the peculiar privi- 
lege of ingratitude to wound hearts that have learned 
to harden themselves to the hate or contempt of men 
to whom no services have been rendered ; but, even 
where injuries have been received in exchange for 
benefits, if you would know the happiness that true 
nobility of soul confers upon its possessor, forgive 
and, as far as possible, forget. It is true that injury 
once inflicted cannot be repaired ; and it must ever 
be impossible for God himself to sponge out the 
records of the past. But there are no injuries that 



73 



the brave cannot forgive. Cowards have done good 
and kind actions : cowards have even fought — nay, 
sometimes conquered, but a coward never forgave ; 
it is not in his nature ; the power of doing it flows 
only from a strength and greatness of soul conscious 
of its own forces and security, and above all the 
little temptations of resenting every fruitless attempt 
to interrupt its happiness. It is the most refined and 
generous pitch of virtue human nature can arrive at. 
The practice of it leads one into that royal road, to 
the perfecter life, where prayers and anxieties and 
tears are of little avail, if the foundation be not 
laid in our own moral capabilities. The laws of 
human progress are inexorable. For us to speak the 
truth, and do the thing that is just, and live in sym- 
pathy with men, is to make truth and justice and 
sympathy easier for our children, and those who 
shall come after us. Even where the husband differs 
in opinion from the wife as to the educating of chil- 
dren, if the mother is true to her duties, truest to 
them in the season of trial, as the quietly loyal 
and good always will be, then the Scripture promise 
will not fail her, " when he is old, he will not depart 
from it." In youth, inheritance and bad example, 
and habit, may hold him in iron fetters, but the 
softening influence of time and experience will 
loosen their hold ; and as the mother has sown, so 
shall she reap in the end. A mother's influence 
never dies, but lives on to guide and bless when she 
has gone to her rest. 

" If I could find it in my heart to envy any one 
7 



74 



for anything, I should envy you the devotion of your 
son," said one mother to another. " I am, indeed, a 
happy mother," was the answer; "but it is always 
the father's influence and example which mould chil- 
dren in their conduct towards their mother, just as it 
is the mother who moulds them in their opinion of 
their father." Herein lies a great truth for parents to 
ponder over in rearing their children early in habits 
of deference and respect. 

It has been said that if we knew all that has made 
up the characters of those around us we would grow 
as pitifying as are the angels. More and more, men 
of culture are growing to acknowledge the laws of 
heredity, and to admit how much a man may have 
to contend with, from transmitted qualities of mind 
and heart. Some writers tell us that one eccentric 
trait may lie dormant for generations, and then crop 
out in a character that, otherwise, would have been 
nearly faultless. What mother who has not been 
puzzled by the complex characters of her children ? 
some of them feeling, perhaps, as a European woman 
of distinction said, " I can understand the fable of 
the mother hen who walked from her nest with a 
brood of goslings, for I cannot see one of my traits 
of character in my children." Children imitate the 
faults of their parents more readily than their virtues. 
The gossip-loving mother will rear a brood of gossip- 
loving children, unless some ether power, such as 
inherited traits, or the father's influence, is strong 
enough to prevent it. Parents who indulge in slan- 
der perpetuate it in their offspring, and themselves 



75 



open the way to still farther dishonesty and crime. 
The man or the woman who could wilfully and inten- 
tionally stain the good name of another, is a man 
not to be trusted with the gold of another. As surely 
as he would rob of the one, would he rob of the 
other, if he felt equally sure of being undetected. 
Women who delight in slander and gossip are 
despicable characters, but there are human beings 
who are even more contemptible, and they are the 
men who delight in it. Still more despicable are 
those of either sex who return benefits with slander. 
" Whosoever rewardeth evil for good, evil shall not 
depart from his house." — Prov. iy : ij. 

Shakspeare, in words of wisdom as golden as any 
from the pens of inspired prophets, wrote : 

" Good name, in man and woman, dear my lord, 

Is the immediate jewel of their souls: 

Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; 

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands : 

But he that niches from me my good name 

Robs me of that which not enriches him 

And makes me poor indeed." 

Public opinion should be educated up to the point 
that " a good name is better than great riches," and that 
those who really and truly feel that it is so, should 
manifest it by pursuing the robber of their good 
name as earnestly as they would the robber of their 
bonds and securities. Not dignified to notice slan- 
ders ! When our caskets of jewels are broken open 
and rifled, do we consider it beneath our dignity to 
pursue the thief and demand their return ? And if 



76 



our character is really more to us than our jewels 
are, we will not sit down folding our hands and say- 
ing, " It is beneath my dignity to do anything towards 
restoring what I value more than life itself." On 
the contrary, no means will be left untried for the 
recovery of our good name and the conviction of the 
robber. When one generation of children has been 
trained to place the right estimate upon character 
(the foundation of which is truth), then we may 
hope for less gossip and slander ; for if the rob- 
bers of reputation were followed up by all those 
whose characters they seek to defame (as they would 
be, were all men and all women equally sensitive to 
stains and slurs cast upon a good name, instead of 
feeling wrongs, rudenesses and insults in proportion 
to the fineness of their moral fibre), fear would check 
both gossip and slander. As long as men follow up 
the robber of their gold and leave the robber of their 
good name unmolested, so long will that carnival 
continue so well described by the poet : 

The flying rumors gathered as they rolled ; 
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told, 
And all who told it added something new, 
And all who heard it made enlargements too ; 
On every ear it spread — on every tongue it grew. 

It is not enough that the anonymous critic and the 
tale-bearing individual are told that " he who repeats 
a slander shares the crime." Seared consciences are 
not touched by proverbs and truisms. Bolder steps 
are necessary to defeat their ends. The first duty of 



77 



every one who calls himself a friend is to defend the 
absent one. No tie is worthy of being called friend- 
ship which does not lead one to the defence of an 
absent friend ; and there is a second duty which is 
not less binding where the friendship is of long 
standing, or a worthy one, and that is to put it in the 
power of the one traduced to deny the invention 
and to counteract the influence of the slander. 

There is a large class of persons who, unknow- 
ingly to themselves, help to keep up both gossip and 
faith in gossip. They refrain from putting it in the 
power of their friends to deny these rumors ; partly 
from fear of getting into trouble themselves or being 
called mischief-makers ; and partly from pure indif- 
ference to the good name of the one whom they 
profess to regard as a friend. It is a custom of gos- 
sips, slanderers, and tale-bearers to call those persons 
who have moral courage enough to help a maligned 
woman face her accusers, mischief-makers. But no 
gentlewoman would ever abuse such a proof of 
friendship as to give the name of the friend who 
kindly put it in her power to contradict a scandal or 
deny a falsehood. She would show herself so want- 
ing in the first principles of honor if she could do so, 
that she would be unworthy of friendship in any 
form. Who is there that would not a thousand 
times over rather stop a scandal at its start, than 
to let the ball go rolling on until it became too 
large to manage. Before all tribunals save those of 
" Fehmgerichte " and of society (our modern Inqui- 
sition), the accused is allowed to know something of 
7* 



78 



the nature of the charges brought against him, but 
when he is made acquainted with them by any of the 
members of either of these associations, the hue and 
cry of treachery is raised. Why is it that so many 
men and women have no idea of the true meaning 
of the word treachery ? 

It is not treachery when a woman raises her voice 
in denial of the false accusations made against a 
friend, and who, when evidence is brought forward 
that she cannot rebut, feeling more confidence in 
her friend than in the evidence, goes to her with the 
frank statement of the charges, and asks for the truth. 
This is not treachery nor mischief-making. The 
mischief-maker invents her tales, or repeats that worst 
kind of a tale, half truth and half fiction, and re- 
turns to report its effect, maliciously distorting all 
that she has elicited from its object. 

As long as it is in the interest of gossips and scan- 
dalmongers to put down true friendship with the cry 
of "mischief-maker!" so long will the true friend 
have need of moral courage to be worthy of an ex- 
alted friendship ; and, in the meantime, they who are 
of sufficient importance to be the subject of gossip, 
will be able to distinguish between the true and the 
pretended friend by a very simple test; for it is the 
latter that always asks the question, " Who tells you 
of these things ?" Let the reader remember this test, 
for it is an unerring one. A true friend wishes to 
put down at the start any story calculated to injure 
the character of his friend, just as he would one con- 
cerning a member of his own family ; and the strength 



79 



of the friendship may be gauged by his promptness 
in putting it in the power of his friend to crush a 
slander. When a man hears any slander of his 
mother, his wife, or his daughter, he does not say, 
" Why do people bother me by running to me with 
such frivolous stories?" He knows the value of 
character, and they who steal his gold are in his eyes 
far less criminal than are they who would rob his 
dear ones of their most precious possession. 

A true friend, and oh, how few they are, will not 
allow the gold of his friend's good name stolen, in his 
presence, any sooner than he would allow his friend's 
purse to be taken. And yet this same true friend, 
who would not hesitate to make known the name of 
the thief who had stolen a purse from his friend, 
would require more than ordinary moral courage, 
and would give proof of more than ordinary friend- 
ship, if he should go to his friend with a slander, and 
put it in his power to refute it. From what does this 
arise ? From the fact that so few hold as binding 
the laws of moral obligation. If you go to an ac- 
quaintance with any gossip or slander about yourself, 
which has reached your ears as coming from that ac- 
quaintance, you do not reveal the name of your in- 
formant ; but if you go to him with any slander which 
concerns him or his family, you are bound to give 
the name. You must either withhold the slander 
from his knowledge, or you must give him the infor- 
mation which will put it in his power to refute it. 

Simple as this seems to all who have any sense of 
moral obligation, those who have not this sense are 



So 



unable to discriminate as to when honor requires that 
the name should be given, and when it is shamefully 
dishonorable to reveal the name. Within a few years 
the New York Evening Post had the following article 
under the heading of 

" WELL-BRED BARBARISM. 

" A prominent Philadelphia journal, whose readers 
are chiefly persons in good society, has recently had 
occasion to print some elaborate commentaries upon 
the laws of courtesy between friends, which the jour- 
nal in question has reason to believe are constantly 
violated through ignorance. One of the laws set forth 
is that one should never tell his friend of the exist- 
ence of a slanderous accusation against him without 
also giving him the name of the accuser, in order 
that he may right himself in the matter. Another 
canon of etiquette explained is that the person to 
whom a revelation of this kind is made, is in honor 
bound not to reveal the source from which he received 
his information respecting his accuser's identity. 

" We refer to this matter now only because it sug- 
gests the existence of a strange lack of good breeding 
and sound sense among persons commonly supposed 
to be well bred. To a person of ordinary percep- 
tions, and of a tolerably right sense of moral obliga- 
tion, the laws here expounded are simply indisputable 
points of morality which ought to require neither set- 
ting forth nor enforcement. There are many conven- 
tional usages of society which young persons must 
learn, but these are not of them. 



Si 



" They are not conventional rules at all, but simply 
dictates of morality and decency, which ought to need 
no teaching anywhere. If the writer who urges them 
is right in the conviction that such teaching is needed, 
there is greater barbarism in good society than good 
society's well-wishers like to think. 

" As ' professional courtesy ' among physicians is 
in fact only the law of right between men, so in mat- 
ters of this kind the requirements are simply that one 
shall not grossly abuse friendship. It ought to be no 
more necessary to teach men and women this, than to 
teach them that they must not take each other's prop- 
erty, and yet we find a Philadelphia journal printing 
careful and somewhat philosophical articles explain- 
ing and enforcing these ordinary obligations as things 
which are in special need of enforcement. The fact 
suggests some painful doubts of the civilization of 
polite society." 



Calumnies coming from any who are dear by ties 
of blood, must be borne heroically. They strike 
through helmet and mail, down to the very heart's 
core ; and what remedy is there for such wounds ? 

Next to such blows are those dealt by Judas-friends, 
who kiss while betraying, who mingle the drop of 
gall so subtly with the drop of honey, that we know 
not from whence the bitterness proceeds ; they who, 
perhaps, under the guise of affectionate censure of 
our conduct to others, awaken suspicions which were 
never before harbored, poisoning the sweet wells of 



82 



living waters which are the sources of solace and re- 
freshment in the green oasis of life's Sahara. Loyal 
souls, noble minds, are not able to take in the full ex- 
tent of such treachery until the hour comes when the 
honey is exhausted, as it will be, and only gall re- 
mains. Then they know that they have given gold, 
and received only copper in return. 

A man can carry a hundredweight on his shoul- 
ders with less inconvenience than a few pounds about 
his heart. It is the burden of which we dare not 
speak, which no friend must seem to see, for which 
no brother must offer a hand, that sinks our failing 
strength, that crushes us down, humbled and help- 
less, in the mire. Of all human affections, that be- 
tween parent and child, if not the strongest, is cer- 
tainly the deepest and most abiding ; so ingratitude 
from a child inflicts on our moral being the sharpest 
and most enduring pain. " Is there any cause in 
nature that makes these hard hearts ?" says poor King 
Lear, after " reaping the fruits of his foolish gener- 
osity," and forced against his own instincts to ac- 
knowledge the venomed bite of that " serpent's tooth" 
with which elsewhere he compares "a thankless 
child." Men and women accept with courage every 
sample of misfortune and disgrace — in the language 
of the prize-ring, " come up smiling" after every kind 
of knock-down blow; but are there any instances on 
record in which the ingratitude of children has not 
produced wrinkles and gray hairs, in the proportion 
of ten to one, for every other sorrow of any descrip- 
tion whatever ? There is no prospect of alleviation 



*3 



to amuse his fancy, no leavening of pique to arouse 
his pride. Hurt to the death, the sufferer has scarce 
manhood enough left to conceal his wounds. If to 
ingratitude a child should add the infamy of slan- 
dering the parent who has poured out treasure of 
deep affection, meeting with no return — " not even 
of silver for gold" — then arises an exception to the 
rule set down, that the robber of a good name should 
be pursued as relentlessly as the robber of jewels. 
No parent but would say, " This is a thief that I can- 
not pursue; this is one of the cruel wrongs which 
must be left in God's hands to punish." And " every 
man's Nemean lion is lying in wait for him some- 
where." Sooner or later the avenging Nemesis that 
shows no mercy overtakes the wrong-doer. 

" Life is the seedtime of eternity, and whatsoever 
a man soweth, that shall he also reap." But for this 
promise, what heart (or brain) that would not grow 
faint when putting forth its feeble efforts against the 
powers of evil, remembering how might triumphs 
over right, and how calumny pursues its victoms be- 
yond the grave ? But Life is the seedtime, and 
Eternity brings the harvest. We have ever before 
us the inspiring example of the Master, who forgave 
his enemies and maligners, although he did not for- 
get the insults and indignities he had received at 
their hands. Indeed, we are nowhere told that it is 
our duty to forget them. Rather should we remem- 
ber them long enough to use them for our own good 
and for the good of others. 

While " it is the glory of a man to pass by a trans- 



84 



gression," mercy needs to be fortified with justice 
quite as much as justice needs to be tempered with 
mercy. We are not to put ourselves on a par with 
the base by hating them ; but while passing over the 
transgression from a social standpoint, we are to con- 
centrate all our powers to the effort of counteracting 
the influence of the slander. 

Thackeray said in one of his papers : " I have a 
story of my own, of a wrong done to me as far back 
as the year 1838; whenever I think of it, and have 
had a couple of glasses of wine, I cannot help telling 

it The wound begins to bleed again. The 

horrid pang is there as keen as ever — that crack 
across my heart can never be cured. There are 
wrongs and griefs that can't be mended. It is ' all 
very well to say that this spirit is unchristian, and 
that we ought to forgive and forget, and so forth. 
How can I forget at will ?" 

And how true this is ! A woman may even for- 
give those who have, by a prolonged and systematic 
public persecution, placed her morally in a pillory 
where, to quote again from Thackeray, she has been 
" hooted with foul abuse and assailed with the garb- 
age of the gutter," until, could she have had her 
choice, she would have preferred to have been burned 
alive rather than to have endured it ; but she cannot 
forget such an experience, try as she may. When- 
ever the action of the brain becomes over-stimulated 
by any cause whatever, she will live over all the 
memories of the past connected with it, rehearse 
them and dwell upon them, although it may be that 



§5 



" nothing but happiness has grown out of her past 
suffering," and " no sore spot is left in her heart." 
She may forgive entirely, but, like Thackeray, she 
cannot forget. She may even go out of her way, 
seeking for opportunities to return good for evil, to 
extend a courtesy in return for an insult regretted by 
its bestower; but forgetfulness is impossible, and the 
memory of such a gigantic wrong must ever loom up 
to throw its shadow over the sunniest fields of life. 
Our experiences in life are sent to us, our talents are 
given to us, our properties are intrusted to us, to use 
for the good of mankind. Upon our use or abuse of 
them depends our happiness here and hereafter. 
The greater a man's place or power is, the greater, 
in God's eyes, is the number of his creditors. .... 

A man is put into this world to do a certain share 
of the world's work ; to stop a gap in the world's 
fencing ; to form a cog, however minute, in the 
world's machinery. By the defalcation of the hum- 
blest individual, some of its movements must be 
thrown out of gear. The duty is to be got through, 
and none of us may shirk our share. 

The busy hands appointed to cleanse the garden 
of the Lord from weeds, must expect nothing but 
pain from the nettles and thorns that it has to weed 
out ; but wherever there is a garden to weed, valuable 
plants are there, as well as worthless weeds ; fragrant 
blossoms to please the senses of sight and smell, as 
well as stinging nettles and prickly thorns. The gar- 
dens of the Lord lie all around us in the world ; in 
our homes, in society ; in the homes of the poor and 



S6 



afifiicted; everywhere. Mothers, teachers, preachers, 
writers, all find work to do in these gardens ; all 
find weeds to pluck and flowers to foster ; and all 
of them should find compensation for the stinging 
pain of the nettles and the thorns, in the odorous 
breath and exquisite coloring of the buds and blos- 
soms which they tend, and in the fruit which is 
borne. Think for one moment what would be the 
result if every gardener were to sit down and fold 
his hands, saying : " I am afraid of these poisonous 
weeds, these prickly thorns and nettles. I do not 
wish to be brought in contact with them in any way ; 
the flowers must look out for themselves. I have my 
own especial garden to attend to, and I find weeds 
enough there to pull up, without troubling myself 
about the weeds in other gardens." Then the teacher 
would cease to teach, the writer would cease to write, 
the preacher would cease to preach, and even the 
mother might say: "I have enough to keep the 
weeds down in my own heart ; my children must 
attend to their hearts themselves." There would be 
only a crop of thistles and thorns then to gather in 
when the harvest- time came. But where would the 
lovely blossoms, the exquisits flowers be ? Could 
they ever develop into fruit, or bear seed that would 
perpetuate their own fragrance and beauty ? Never, 
the briers would keep them down out of reach of 
the sunlight; the rank growth of the nettle-roots 
would smother the embryo leaves in their earliest 
infancy, and in time there would be a wilderness of 



87 



weeds to offend, instead of lovely gardens of flowers 
to gratify the eye. 

The blossoms in the gardens of life bear a balm in 
their juices for the healing of all wounds, and wher- 
ever there is a garden where there are weeds to be 
rooted out, there grow the plants which yield this balm, 
and which are worth all the trouble and the pain of 
weeding out that would impede their growth, if not 
altogether keep them down out of sight. The man, 
whose carefully-furrowed and planted field is sown 
with tares by his enemy, while its owner sleeps, and 
who, listening not to the voice of the mistaken friend 
calling to him, " You have planted your seed, let it go ; 
nothing that is good ever dies," bends himself to the 
Herculean task of pulling up by the roots, every 
prickly, stinging tare, while the crowd gathers with 
derisive laughter, mocking him at his work — that man 
is for the time being on a plane beyond the reach of 
his detractors. They may represent him as working 
for the greed of gold, and for aggrandizement of self, 
but conscious of the motives that inspire him, he 
finds " meat to eat that the world knows not of," as 
during the blazing hours of midday he toils on, 
remembering that the full rich sheaves of an abun- 
dant harvest are promised only to those who are 
faithful to the end. To the sordid, the mean, the 
base, it may really seem that he is working to fill his 
own granary, for, as Spurgeon says in one of his ser- 
mons, " If you live the most devoted and disinter- 
ested life possible, you will find people sneering at 
you, and imputing your actions to selfish motives, 



ss 



and putting a cruel construction on all you do or 
say." 

Well, it does not matter if they do ; if we lead 
disinterested lives here, we shall have the conscious- 
ness of the integrity of our motives, and learn how 
God makes all things (even slanders and sneers) 
work together for our good." 

No evils touch us save by God's blessed will, 
Who turns e'en sin to work his purpose still. 

It is worth some suffering to learn this great lesson 
of life, for when once learned, submission and 
endurance are made easy. The increase of knowledge 
includes the increase of sorrow ; but the knowledge 
of the depth of sorrow is the gate of a divine joy. 

With peaceful mind thy race of duty run. 

God nothing does, or suffers to be done, 

But what thou wouldst thyself, if thou couldst see 

Through all events of things as well as He. 

" I do not wish to be called a brilliant woman," 
wrote a mother to a daughter who had so called her. 
" I wish to have my children think of me in my life, 
and when I am gone, as of one who tried to do all 
the good that she could while here." 

Such must be the aspiration of every true woman's 
heart ; for so far as a woman is true to the nature 
that God has given her, her aspiration is not so much 
that the world should ring with her fame, says 
Brooke, or society quote her as a leader, but that 
she should bless, and be blessed in blessing. Where 



she has power of position, she uses it for noble, and 
not ignoble ends — for womanly services, and not for 
the degradation of herself and others. 

Kingsley spoke truly when he said, "We are all 
too apt to be the puppets of circumstances ; all too 
apt to follow the fashion ; all too apt, like so many 
minnows, to take our color from the ground on which 
we lie, in hopes, like them, of comfortable conceal- 
ment, lest the new tyrant deity called public opinion 
should spy us out, and like Nebuchadnezzar of old, 
cast us into a burning fiery furnace — which public 
opinion can make very hot — for daring to worship 
any god or man save the will of the temporary ma- 
jority. It is difficult for any souls but heroic ones to 
be anything but poor, mean, insufficient, imperfect 
people, as like each other as so many sheep ; and like 
so many sheep, having no will or character of our 
own, but rushing altogether blindly over the same 
gap, in foolish fear of the same dog, who, after all, 
dare not bite us; and so it always was, and always 
will be. 

' Unless above himself he can 
Exalt himself, how poor a thing is man.' 

" But, nevertheless, any man or woman who will, 
can live a heroic life and exercise heroic influences, 
in any age and under any circumstances. But he 
ought to have, he must have, justice, self-restraint, and 
that highest form of modesty for which we have, alas ! 
no name in the English tongue ; that perfect respect 
for the feelings of others which springs out of perfect 
8* 



$0 



self-respect. True heroism involves self-sacrifice, 
but it must be voluntary ; a work of supererogation, 
at least toward society and men — an act to which the 
hero or heroine is not bound by duty, but which is 
above, though not against duty." 

When will the world learn that no man, no woman, 
can make himself or herself a leader ? When a gen- 
eral is needed, destiny raises him to fill the place as- 
signed to him. He has not chosen himself, and very 
often he is not the one whom the people would have 
chosen. Neither art, nor literature, nor science is a 
craft. Those to whom the endowment comes in their 
cradles, all those in whom the immortal spark of 
genius (that lives in every soul) is tended into a flame, 
feel that they have a mission to fulfil— a sacred mis- 
sion. Sacred it must be, for there can be no mission 
from men to men. It comes from the divinity within — 
from God himself. It is He who worketh in them 
both to will and to do of His own good pleasure. As 
Hamerton says, it would be as well if, instead of set- 
ting down originality as folly, we were to give Heaven 
credit for understanding the best interests of humanity, 
when it accompanied every good gift with the con- 
dition that the possessor should be uneasy until he 
had set it forth. All artists, poets, inventors, think- 
ers, are compelled to set forth their gifts. This is 
the condition of the genuineness in art work. Men 
and women engrossed in great works are not gener- 
ally the ones who seek leadership in it, but seek rather 
to establish others than to take the lead themselves. 

Swift said, " Hide your intellect, do what you are 
expected to do, say what you are expected to say, 



9 i 



and you will be at peace." The secret of popularity 
is to be commonplace on principle. But if, as has 
been asserted, the thinker's gift gives him no rest 
until he has used it for the good of mankind, Swift's 
advice cannot be followed by men of talent. 

Spinoza declared that in order to lead a tranquil 
life he had been compelled to renounce all kinds of 
teaching. Truly the teacher and preacher have a 
hard penalty to pay for devoting their lives to the 
service of mankind, if the loss of tranquillity is to be 
one of the forfeits. This is why we often see hearts 
which are attuned to the melody of all goodness 
jarred by rude hands, until they utter notes as dis- 
cordant as those breathed by the Archbishop of 
Cashel, when he said in a letter to Dean Swift, " I 
have for these four or five years past met with so 
much treachery, baseness,, and ingratitude among 
mankind, that I can hardly think it incumbent on 
any man to endeavor to do good to so perverse a 
generation." 

He had paid the forfeit of some noble endeavor, 
some misplaced trust, in loss of tranquillity of mind 
for the time being. 

" The evil that we do," says Rochefoucault, " does 
not draw upon us so many persecutions and so much 
hatred as our good qualities." 

" Think truly, and thy thought 
Shall the world's famine feed; 

Speak truly, and thy word 
Shall be a fruitful seed; 

Live truly, and thy life shall be 
A great and noble creed." 



9 2 



Writers, benefactors, and philosophers, however, 
are not the characters most beloved by the world. 
They have the pleasure of reflecting that the public 
hatred is never universally excited against an ordi- 
nary man. They are not surprised if the vulgar con- 
demn whatever they write and all they say, or if some 
of their readers call black white, and white black. 
This kind of stupidity is a dangerous kind when it 
goes with credit and authority, reminding one of the 
fox in the Indian fable. 

" Reynard, where are you going in so great a 
hurry ? Have you done any mischief for which you 
are fearful of being punished?" " No, sir," replied 
the fox, " my conscience is clear, and does not re- 
proach me with anything; but I have just overheard 
the hunters wish that they had a camel to hunt this 
morning." " Well, but how does that concern you? 
You are not a camel." "O! sir," replied the fox, 
" sagacious heads always have enemies. If any one 
should point me out to the huntsmen, and say, ' There 
runs a camel P those gentlemen would immediately 
seize me and load me with chains, without once in- 
quiring whether I really was a camel." 

Reynard was right, but it is lamentable that men 
should be wicked in proportion as they are stupid, or 
that they should be wicked only because they are 
envious. He who finds himself the object of such 
wrath, can revenge himself by letting it be seen that 
no man living is an object of envy or scandal to him, 
and console himself by remembering that envy is the 
shadow of glory, as glory is the shadow of virtue. 



93 



There are no worse tyrants than the prejudices of 
mankind, and the servitude of liberal minds becomes 
more weighty in proportion to the public ignorance. 
Those minds that have learned wisdom from experi- 
ence should neither be weighed down, shaken, nor 
surprised by outside influences. They have resources 
which repay for all calumnies, for all the ingratitude 
with which their labors and anxieties have been re- 
warded; they can use society to minister to their 
ends without being hurt by it. They will not be in- 
fluenced in their judgments of others by those who 
call white black, but will judge for themselves. 

" But breathe the air 
Of mountains, and their unapproachable summits 
Will lift thee to the level of themselves. 

Their own thoughts 
Are their companions, their designs and labors, 
And aspirations are the only friends 
Whom they can wholly trust." 

That peculiarity of organization which enables 
authors to idealize, to take their flights of fancy, and 
to feel that sympathy with each character that they 
create, necessary for its consistent and harmonious 
development, also endows them with that super- 
sensitiveness, which brings with it great capacity for 
suffering, as well as great enjoyment. De Tocqueville 
uttered the want of all true poets, as well as all noble 
souls, when he said, "I cannot be happy or even 
calm without the encouragement and sympathy of 
some of my fellow-creatures." What marks the 



94 



poetic temper is the intensity of its sympathy ; what 
marks the artistic is its versatility. 

Cicero says, " The love of praise influences all 
mankind and the greatest minds are most susceptible 
of it." " Praises bestowed upon great and exalted 
minds only rouse and spur on their emulation," says 
Plutarch. 

Kingsiey, after stating that every motive which 
springs from self is by its very essence unheroic, adds, 
but the love of approbation, the desire for the respect 
and love of our fellow-men, must not be excluded 
from the list of heroic motives. Whereby we see 
that the craving of men for sympathy in sorrow from 
those whom they love, for appreciation of motives of 
action when these motives have been maligned and 
traduced by enemies, for a just and charitable estimate 
of aims in life, are counted not as weaknesses, but as 
virtues. 

When friends in whom men have trusted fail them 
in sympathy, appreciation, and charity, what more 
natural than that the human should triumph over the 
divine, as in our Lord's experience when deserted by 
his apostles. For as a clergyman of the Church of 
England so eloquently tells us, that which we love 
most in men and women, in our leaders, in wife and 
husband, daughter and son, in sister and brother, 
friend or lover, is faithfulness. It is, as it is in God, 
the ground of all other qualities. If, even in thought, 
it is untrue, if it allow base motives to be imputed to 
those we love for conduct which we do not under- 
stand, if it listen to blame imputed without denial, if 



95 



it maintains silence when speech could aid, then it is 
faithlessness worse than speech. For we may pardon 
the faithless looseness of the tongue in excitement, 
but not the failure of the heart. 

" Let the mad world go on its way, it will go its 
own way!" cry the worldly wise to those whose 
feet have been led into paths which they have not 
chosen — paths which friends condemn, and foes assail. 
Heed not the cry ! God has given to every man, to 
every woman, a work to do (be it ever so humble) for 
others, as well as for themselves and their own, and 
the time comes at last when they all find their paths, 
and when their work is made clear for them. 

Let the mad world go its own way, is also the 
cry sent after the philanthropist, who, working for the 
amelioration of the condition of his fellow-men, meets 
with obloquy and reproach. All who labor to 
advance the welfare of their kind, are working in 
God's fields, whether it be work for the race or for 
individuals, whether it be collectively in some gigan- 
tic cause, or singly and humbly, by those who, valuing 
the beauty of beautiful behavior, kind acts, and bene- 
ficent deeds, strive to improve themselves and others, 
and to bring blessings wherever they go. If, then, 
the mad world will go its own way, it is our duty to 
see that it does not carry us away from the work 
given to every human being in entail — that of per- 
fecting his own character and living for the good of 
others. 

No one can walk over a bed of thornless roses with 
such a goal in view ; the brambles upon either side 



9 6 



of the straight and narrow path of duty bear spikes 
like that of the desert thorn of Sahara — long enough 
to pierce to the heart's core of those who stoop. to 
encounter them. Sharpest among such thorns are 
those thrust in by hands we have trusted in for sup- 
port — faithless hands which fail us when we need 
them most. 

" God has ordained that mankind should be ele- 
vated by misfortune, and that happiness should grow 
out of misery and pain," says Reade in his " Martyr- 
dom of Man." He it is who also says, " To do that 
which deserves to be written, to write that which 
deserves to be read, to tend the sick, to comfort the 
sorrowful, to animate the weary, to keep the temple 
of the body pure, to cherish the divinity within us, to 
be faithful to the intellect, to educate those powers 
which have been intrusted to our charge, and to em- 
ploy them in the service of humanity, that is all we 
can do." 

" All writing comes by the grace of God, and all 
doing and having," says Emerson; but — 

" Thou must be true to thyself, 

If thou the truth would teach, 

Thy soul must overflow, if thou 
Another soul wouldst reach ; 

It needs the overflowing heart 
To give the pen full speech." 

Upon no subject has there been a greater variety 
of opinion expressed than upon the compensation 
the author finds in his work, for the abuse that he 
receives. One writer tells us that there is no happi- 



97 



ness on earth to equal that which the author feels, as 
day by day he sees the creations of his fancy grow 
and develop under his pen; that his talent lends 
light and color to the poorest life ; that all sickness 
of the soul is cured by the performance of such work. 
Others again say that the artistic temperament is too 
sensitive to its own failures, too dependent on appre- 
ciation for much happiness to be obtained from it. 

" The gift of the pen is an enigma ; once an author, 
always an author," says Bulwer. Genius is destiny, 
and will be obeyed ; you must write despite yourself, 
if you have the gift. It is true that not all who have 
the infirmities of genius have its strength, and we are 
apt to apply the word genius to the minds of the gifted 
few ; but in all of us there is a genius that is inborn, 
a pervading something which distinguishes our very 
identity, and dictates to the conscience that which we 
are best fitted to do and to be. 

In so dictating it compels our choice in life — maps 
out our work — and if we resist the dictate, we find at 
its close that we have gone astray. The power of 
the writer is breathed into him as he lies in his cradle. 
It is a power that gathers for its own use all the ex- 
periences of life. 

The writer is forced to make use of all that comes 
to him to use ; oftentimes he is driven to his work 
against his will. Friends may oppose, acquaintances 
ridicule, strangers wonder why one should work who 
need not work. 

It is all the same ; in vain the author's best loved 
ones may quote Horace's words, " I would keep the 
9 



9 S 



vulgar public from all whom I love — all who are 
sacred to me," the writer must utter that which is 
given to him to say. It is the voice of inspiration 
in him, and he cannot turn away from it 

The more intense the sympathy possessed by the 
author, the more keen is the power of suffering from 
the injustice and the venom of critics. If the cross 
of " a good name " maligned is laid upon such they 
must walk the via dolorosa of their lives bravely : 
for this cross is not one that once borne can be taken 
off at pleasure ! 

Is there any trial on earth like that of having such a 
cross placed by hands that are trusted as implicitly 
as the Creator is trusted ? "A man's foes are of his 
own household," says Scripture; but surely the writer 
of these words could not have meant that it is so in 
other than exceptional cases ! The great Swedish 
sage, Oxenstiern, had engraved on a stone of his 
house these lines, which still arrest the attention of 
the passers-by : 

" Rid thyself of thine enemy, 
Trust not too much to thy friend." 

Where there is no trust, there can be no betrayal. 
It is they who are wounded in the houses of their 
friends, and not those who find unexpected enemies 
in acquaintances, that know what the word " be- 
trayed " means, in its fullest significance. 

It is a great gift of the gods to be born with a 
hatred and contempt of all injustice and meanness. 
The more grand and noble the soul the more it will 



99 



be wounded by the blows of injustice; and just in 
proportion to the purity of the soul, to the sense of 
justice in the individual, will be his hatred of evil 
and his indignation against it. To love truth is to 
hate falsehood intensely. 

Truth, which is the foundation of all manly char- 
acter, and of all womanly virtues, is also the keystone 
of the arch of domestic peace. If that fails, all falls 
in ruin. There is no unhappiness in life equal to 
unhappiness at home. All other personal miseries 
can be better borne than the terrible misfortune of 
domestic disunions, and none so completely demor- 
alize all but the noblest natures. The anguish of 
disease itself is modified, ameliorated, even rendered 
blessed, by the tender touch, the dear presence of the 
sympathetic beloved ; and loss of fortune is not loss 
of happiness where family love is left. But the 
want of that love is not to be supplied by anything 
else on earth. Health, fortune, success, nothing has 
its full savor when the home is unhappy; and the 
greatest triumphs in the world are of no avail to 
cheer the sinking heart when misery within the 
home has to be encountered. To be supposed 
gifted with home happiness because Heaven has 
denied you nothing else, and yet to sit down, Cin- 
derella-like, to the ashes of the domestic hearth in 
the midst of contention, discussion and despair, 
what life can equal the misery of this ? None ; not 
even imprisonment, nor banishment, nor poverty, nor 
ruin — nothing has the force of misery which lies in 
the home where all peace is destroyed by domestic 



discord. The most exalted, the noblest, the purest 
idea, in life, is that of true hearts knit together in 
mutual confidence, respect and love : briefly the idea 
of unity at home. Where a real devotion has existed 
between parent and child, a devotion born of tender- 
ness on one side, and respect and confidence on the 
other, is there any power on earth that can alter it ? 

" To step aside from Love is hell — 
To walk with Love is heaven." 

One fruitful source of family difficulties is found in 
conflicting interests. " Have no business relations 
with any one who is dear to you," has been set down 
as a rule that it is wise to follow ; but where the 
heart is right, as well as the head, business relations 
cannot break the ties of family love. Still, experi- 
ence shows us how few are the natures that can stand 
this test. When the two brothers came to our Lord 
with their disputes, he said, " Beware of covetous- 
ness." This is the shoal whereon, under the fair 
and smiling skies of w r orldly prosperity, the bark of 
family love is often hopelessly wrecked. 

George Eliot wrote,— In order to be good we 
must have persons around us who exert a good influ- 
ence over us. Better is a dry morsel, and quietness 
therewith, than an house full of treasures with strife. 
" How can two walk together unless they are agreed ?" 
asks the Scripture. The answer should have been 
given, " Only by a life of entire self-abnegation on 
the part of one." As a madman who casteth 
firebrands, arrows and death, so is the man that 



deceiveth, and saith, " I do not mean what I say." 
There is no keystone in the arch where such a one 
dwells ; and as a house divided against itself must 
fall, so they whom Heaven sends such sorrows, must 
" go softly all their years in the bitterness of their 
souls," mourning over the ruins of their hearthstones, 
where the cold ashes lie with no light falling upon 
them ; but when the last hour comes, as come it 
must to all, how complete the peace that passeth all 
understanding, if such a one is enabled, as he 
wraps his mantle around him, and turns his face to 
the wall, to murmur softly with his latest breath, " I 
have been placed in command ; I have striven not 
to abuse my trust ; I have kept in the path of justice 
and truth, even when I walked on my own heart in 
the way, my good name pierced by the arrows of 
calumny, and my spirit wounded unto death." 

True friendship, true love, never dies until it has 
been murdered. 

" You mourn for your dead ; you go, 
Clad in your robes of woe, 
To the spot where they sleep — 
And you weep, 
Such bitter tears, and there 
You strew flowers, fresh and fair ; 
You place a white stone at the head, 
Where, graven with sculptor's art, 
We read your sorrow of heart, 
And the dear name of your dead. 

" But there are living dead ; you know 
Not the bitterest woe 
Till you close the eager eyes 
Of sweet young Hope, and mournful-wise 

9* 



102 

Cross the pallid hands of Love> 
And sorrowing bend above 
The ashes and dust 
Of Honor and Truth and Trust, 
For these are the living- dead. 

" Ah ! those other dead ; who dare 
Robes of mourning for dead hopes wear? 
Who bids a stone arise 
To tell where dead Love lies? 
When did ever a mourner say- 
Help me bury these dead away? 
These funeral trains men do not see ; 
They move silently 

Down to the heart where the grave is made, 
Where the dead is laid. 
No flowers are strewn there, 
No moan is heard there, 
No ritual is said 
Over their bed, 
Hidden away from sight 
The grave lies low. 
But the solemn silent night 
That doth know, 
And it seeth ever the white 
Face of our woe. 

" You are happy who mourn for your dead, 
By the side of graves kept green 
By the tears you shed. 
Who can lean 

Lovingly where they sleep — 
Pray for those who in secret weep — 
The living dead." 

The artistic temperament, the poetic organization, 
should find a compensation for all slander, all mis- 
representations, all treachery, whether it come to him 



i°3 



through anonymous criticisms, or by the backbitings 
of the envious ; from trust betrayed and friendship 
outraged, or family loyalty violated, in learning, what 
Pope said is the most important lesson of life, viz., 
the art of being happy within one's self; for, if de- 
nied the protecting care of friendship and love, and 
those ministrations of sympathy which all noble 
hearts crave, he need not fly from one remedy to 
another for distraction, for his work lies mapped 
out before him — an ever-broadening life -task. Shut 
the house-door on men or women who possess 
" the gift of the pen," and they must needs go forth 
to work for others. In fixing the mind upon dis- 
charging the duties of humanity, and in conquering 
the difficulties in our paths, the soul acquires that in- 
expressible tranquillity and satisfaction which teaches 
it to become contented within itself, seeking no higher 
pleasure. The dignity of the human character be- 
comes debased by associating with low and little 
minds. The child, trained in all that is ennobling 
and elevating, sinks to the level of the associates he 
chooses ; and even " the character of the man is 
changed by the company he keeps, or by the wife he 
marries." Thus one becomes reconciled to those 
events of life which force him into comparative soli- 
tude. There are none who have reached middle life 
who cannot, in looking back, see how unhappy they 
would be had Providence granted them all that they 
desired. Even under the very afflictions by which 
man conceives all the happiness of his life annihi- 
lated, God purposes something extraordinary in his 



104 



favor. He who tries every expedient, who boldly 
opposes himself to every difficulty, who stands ready 
and inflexible to every obstacle, who neglects no ex- 
ertion within his power, and relies with confidence 
upon the assistance of God, extracts from affliction 
both its poison and its sting, and deprives misfortune 
of its victory. 

The slanderer, the robber of a good name, can be 
left in the hands of Him who best knows the enor- 
mity of the sin committed. There will be hours in 
this life in which the still small voice of conscience 
must make itself heard ; and in that other life, prepa- 
ration for which is made in this our novitiate, there 
will be time for conscience to complete its work of 
reformation. The law of retribution reigns there, as 
elsewhere, in all the realms of the Most Just. . . . 

Let the slanderer bear in mind the lesson which 
this poem teaches. 

" I sat alone with my conscience, 

In a place where time had ceased ; 
And we talked of my former living 

In the land where the years increased. 
And I felt I should have to answer 

The question it put to me, 
And to face the answer and question 

Throughout an eternity. 

" The ghosts of forgotten actions 

Came floating before my sight, 
And things that I thought were dead things 

Were alive with a terrible might; 
And the vision of all my past life 

Was an awful thing to face, 
Alone with my conscience sitting 

In that solemnly silent place. 



io5 

" And I thought of a far-away warning 

Of a sorrow that was to be mine, 
In a land that then was the future, 

But now was the present time; 
And I thought of my former thinking 

Of a judgment-day to be; 
But sitting alone with my conscience 

Seemed judgment enough for me. 

" And I wondered if there was a future 

To this land beyond the grave ; 
But no one gave me an answer, 

And no one came to save. 
Then I felt that the future was present, 

And the present would never go by ; 
For it was but the thought of my past life 

Grown into eternity. 

" Then I woke from my timely dreaming, 

And the vision passed away, 
And I knew the far-away warning 

Was a warning of yesterday ; 
And I pray that I may not forget it, 

In this land before the grave, 
That I may not cry in the future, 

And no one come to save. 

" And so I have learned a lesson, 

Which I ought to have learned before, 
And which, though I learned it dreaming, 

I hope to forget no more. 
So I sit alone with my conscience. 

In the place where the years increase; 
And I try to remember the future, 

In the land where time will cease. 
And I know of the future judgment, 

How dreadful soe'er it be, 
That to sit alone with my conscience 

Will be judgment enough for me." 



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